The Fair Trade Raid
by Millie Terry
Summary: The Rat Patrol must infiltrate occupied Tripoli to lay a trap for Hitler. What happens on the mission offers an answer to the question of why Hitchcock and Pettigrew switched partners. The action takes place between the pilot and S1E2 (The Life Against Death Raid,) when the team is still adjusting to its new member.
1. Chapter 1

**The Fair Trade Raid**

 **by Millie Terry**

In the pilot, Hitchcock is the driver for the anonymous casualty (whom I've named Benson here) and then Moffitt when he joins them. But after that, Hitchcock drives for Troy and Tully drives for Moffitt. No explanation is ever given for the switch, so this is an effort to clear that up. Thanks to Polly Cy from _The Big Valley Writing Desk_ for the plot bunny. Despite her inexplicable preference for westerns, she has a soft spot for RP and apparently offered the idea to a couple of you. When no one took up the challenge, she passed it along to me. Polly, I hope you a) think I did justice to your idea, and b) see the light and get over the westerns, already!

I also wondered about Hitchcock's mysterious disappearing glasses. He doesn't seem to wear them with any consistency, so I had to ask why. I hope this explanation makes sense.

Everyone seems to use "Colonel Wilson," but that's fanon, not canon. As the proud owner of the complete set of DVDs, I can assure you all that Colonel _Quint_ is the officer at the top of the RP's chain of command. Quint appeared in the pilot, had an uncredited appearance in Season 1's "Do or Die Raid" and appeared in the "Chase of Fire Raid."

Captain Boggs seems to be the only other recurring officer working with the Rats, appearing in a total of 5 episodes and referenced by name in several others

Secretary of War Henry Stimson served under four US Presidents: Taft, Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, and Truman. This is the same Henry Stimson who shut down the State Department's "Black Chamber" code breaking unit with the stupendously idiotic statement, "Gentlemen don't read each others' mail." This action almost certainly contributed to the tragedy of Pearl Harbor, since the Black Chamber had cracked and routinely monitored Japanese diplomatic traffic. When Stimson disbanded them, the US was left "deaf and blind" regarding Japan's intentions.

Operation Torch. The Allied push into German and Italian-held North Africa from Morocco in the west, and Egypt in the east. November 8-16, 1942. The effort to take North Africa concluded successfully with Montgomery's 8th Army's moving into Tripoli on January 22, 1943.

Libya was considered by Mussolini to be an Italian colony, the so-called "Fourth Shore" of Italy.

Native Libyans were required to obtain a special "limited citizenship" award in order to get jobs, particularly in the military

Tripoli had a population of about 120,000, with more than a third being Italians

 **CHAPTER 1**

The Allied camp was pretty much like all the others in this part of North Africa. It was semi-permanent, butted up against a smallish town whose narrow streets were choked with dogs and donkeys, hand-pulled carts and top-heavy trucks, men in desert robes and men in desert uniforms. Out of deference to the local Muslims, the troops who ventured into the coffee houses didn't demand alcohol, but they hadn't given up their beer and spirits entirely. A dozen or more temporary establishments had sprung up on the fringes of the town, winked at by the local headman and tolerated with tightly pressed lips and smoldering, resentful eyes by the Imam.

Sgt. Sam Troy got lucky and found his two privates in only the third one he checked. It was slightly better than the first two; its interior was dim and shadowy, and, thanks to a fan circling lazily near the ceiling, it was a scant but welcome ten degrees cooler than the outside. The thumping, wheezing compressor offered the promise that the beer might be cool at least, and cold with any luck. The owner had made a half-hearted effort to give the place an illusion of permanency. Empty oil drums topped with squares of wood scavenged from shipping crates and covered with pieces of stained cotton in a variety of patterns, were scattered around the cramped space. Pettigrew and Hitchcock were sprawled on a couple of folding chairs drawn up to one of these makeshift tables. Each held a bottle of beer, but as he approached, Troy could see that both were still capped. Apparently neither of them had the energy to open his beer, much less lift it and drink. Troy snagged one of his own and dragged over a nearby chair just before a red-faced corporal could plant his oversized rump in it.

They sat in silence for a minute or two, too tired to make the effort at conversation. In the last five weeks, they had been out on missions or patrol every day but one, and that day was spent enjoying the dubious hospitality of the Wehrmacht. Even before that, they had pulled constant duty in one form or another. Adding it in his head, Troy figured that they hadn't seen a cot, let alone a real meal, in somewhere around six weeks. Both privates' faces wore that stunned, blank look that spoke of total exhaustion. Even beneath its tan and several layers of dirt, Hitch's face was noticeably pale, and there were faint creases radiating from the corners of Tully's eyes and mouth, signaling a headache. Finally Hitchcock broke the silence.

"How'd it go with Colonel Quint, Sarge?" Behind his glasses, his blue eyes were rimmed with red and underlined with deep purple smudges, making their color stand out with startling clarity. "They sending us back out right away?"

"Nah, seems someone got a glimpse of you two sad sacks and decided we needed twenty-four hours recovery time." Actually, Colonel Quint had told him that he needed the men especially alert and sharp for their next mission, and gruffly ordered him to make sure that they all got some rest. Troy made an effort to see Hitchcock and Pettigrew from the colonel's perspective, and conceded that he might have a point. Both of them sported a variety of minor injuries, mostly but not completely healed, and moved with the heaviness of men who had tapped their last reserves of strength. Troy was completely unaware that he looked just as bad if not worse than the younger men. He had the smallish stature and wiry toughness of his parents' Greek ancestors, but he was whipcord thin, boiled down to nothing more than muscle and sinew, and his gray-blue eyes held an almost feral glitter. He forced his tense shoulders to relax and cautiously settled back in the rickety chair. He picked at the label of his bottle for a few moments before taking a long pull, and gave a satisfied sigh.

"So," he said casually. "What do you think of our new fourth now that he's been here a few weeks?" He gave every indication that the question was no more than idle curiosity, but his two privates knew better, and exchanged a quick look.

Uncharacteristically, it was Pettigrew who spoke up first. "They making his assignment permanent, Sarge?"

Troy shrugged, his non-answer, answer enough.

"He seems okay," Tully went on in his usual measured way. "There's nothing wrong with his guts, I'll give him that…"

Hearing an unspoken "but," Troy cocked an inquiring eyebrow.

Tully thoughtfully ran his hand through hair that was so caked with desert dust that it looked more sandy blond than light red. It had been about six weeks since any of them had had a haircut, too. He decided on directness. "But he's a lousy shot, Sarge. I just hope he doesn't get Hitch killed."

"Well, by your standards, we're all lousy shots. And shooting from a moving jeep is an acquired skill. He'll get better," Troy returned with half a grin. The grin disappeared, remembering absent teammates with less than perfect marksmanship. They had lost one just a couple weeks ago, which is how they'd ended up with their new British teammate. "I'll see about getting him some practice if we ever have any free time. What about you, Hitchcock? You're driving for him," the sergeant continued. "Any problems?"

"He's catching on," Mark Hitchcock said cautiously. Tully had already voiced his primary concern, the one he'd confided to him after that first mission. Besides, he hated it when Troy pulled one of these Q&A's. He never knew quite what the sergeant wanted from him, and it reminded him more than a little of some of his professors back home, the ones who were always trying to trip him up. "He picked up our signals right away, and I'm getting better at anticipating what he wants." He squirmed slightly under Troy's penetrating gaze.

Neither he nor Tully knew what Troy had done before the war, but whatever it was, it had allowed him to master the art of silent intimidation. After a few months of speculation, they had more or less decided that their CO was career military. His decisive bearing, that blunt, tough edge he brought to everything, his comfort around officers and enlisted men alike, and the ease with which he asserted command made it the most likely option. But then Colonel Quint had made that crack about "sweating out the draft," and since then the two privates had resumed their guessing game. Hitchcock half-seriously suggested commandant of a boys' reform school, while comic book aficionado Tully countered with the suggestion of a mild-mannered reporter at a large metropolitan newspaper. Hitch shook his head slightly, realizing that Troy was waiting with poorly concealed impatience for him to finish. "It's helpful to have someone who speaks German. His Arabic has come in handy a couple times already, too, and his knowledge of the area does make things easier out there."

Troy nodded. He knew the private well enough to catch the faint discomfort underlying the words, but not quite well enough to pinpoint the reason. He suspected, though, that it had something to do with Moffitt's profession. The kid always deflected mention of his college career with a smirk or a joke, never, ever discussing Yale, his studies, or the fact that he literally had to sneak off campus to sign up. Now he was teamed with a PhD, a PhD who tried repeatedly to engage him in intellectual discussions that Hitch wanted no part of. Troy didn't have to dig deep to see that the pairing was awkward, to say the least.

Troy did know that Hitchcock had burned a lot of bridges when he volunteered. The ruckus that followed had been notable enough to make it into the private's jacket.

Hitch had already been two weeks into his basic training when one of his professors had called the elder Hitchcock to report his son's absence from classes. The banker had quickly found out what his wayward son had done and rushed to Washington with the intention of extricating him from the clutches of the US Army. He'd dragged along Professor Something-or-other to help make the case that Mark was destined for far greater things than cannon fodder for the Nazis, scooping up representatives from the offices of both of Connecticut's senators along the way, just in case a bit of extra pressure was needed.

According to the notes in Hitch's file, that pressure was intense and it was determined. There was an acrimonious meeting with an Undersecretary from the War Department, the highest ranking person available since Marcus Hitchcock's former Yale classmate, Henry Stimson himself, had been out of the country. Had the blue-blooded Secretary of War been present, young Hitchcock would undoubtedly have been packed back to genteel serfdom in New Haven. As it was, the private was pulled from basic training in Georgia and brought to DC, where he was subjected to two full days' worth of harangues and threats. To his credit, he flatly refused to back down, and ultimately there was nothing that could be done, legally at least. He was eighteen, and his signature on the recruitment papers was binding. When Mark sensed that his father was about to move into the realm of extra-legal means, he fixed him with an unwinking stare and assured Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Fourth that should he survive the war, Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Fifth would cut off all contact with his father, who furthermore could forget about any possibility of a Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Sixth. He had a more than adequate trust fund set up by his late grandmother, and could live quite comfortably without his father's approval or support. He'd name any sons Jim or Bill or Bob or Ron or Doug or even Mortimer John. Anything but the detested Marcus Aurelius.

Ultimately, the youngster was allowed to board a transport back to Georgia, victorious but deeply mortified. Troy knew the kid was a brooder and could carry a grudge, and had to wonder if there could be trouble ahead if something about the Englishman stirred up old resentments. It didn't take much; in battle, a moment's hesitation or less than 100% confidence in your teammate could spell disaster.

"Is there a problem here, Hitch?" he asked, pinning the youngest team member with an intense stare.

"Nah," the youngest Rat shrugged.

"Is there _going_ to be?" Troy pressed.

"You know me, Sarge. I can get along with anyone."

The smirk that accompanied this made Troy momentarily sympathize with Hitchcock, Senior. It was true enough that Hitch could, and usually did, get along with people, particularly when it came to the fairer sex. But the answer didn't reassure the sergeant. If anything, it made him even more uneasy. When Moffitt joined them a few minutes later, he kept a watchful eye on the pair, studying their interactions, what few there were. It was clear that Moffitt was trying his best to establish some sort of rapport with his driver, and equally clear that he was going about it all wrong. Hitch didn't want to exercise his brain, he wanted to turn it off for a while. Like Troy himself, and Moffitt too, Hitch's college experience had qualified him for officer training. And, also like Troy and Moffitt, he had declined. The Army offered him relative anonymity and a chance to be an ordinary guy. Hitch had jumped at the chance. For the first time in his life, he could sit around drinking beer and chewing the fat with his buddies. Heck, for the first time in his life he actually _had_ buddies. _His_ buddies. Not the useful friends chosen for him by his father. Not his shallow fraternity brothers back at Yale, who were more interested in getting drunk, chasing girls, and avoiding the war than academics. Hitch didn't particularly object to the first two, but the third, avoiding the war, outraged him.

Troy was only guessing at some of that, of course, but he was willing to bet that his guesses were pretty close to the mark. When the group broke up a few minutes later, Troy was no closer to deciding whether or not Hitch and Moffitt would be able to work together.

 **CHAPTER 2**

Jack Moffitt gave a little huff, a barely noticeable exhalation of breath that signaled extreme frustration, as he watched Hitchcock and Pettigrew amble off in the direction of their tent. He'd just made yet another conversational overture to his blond driver, and received only a "Yes, Sgt. Moffitt, that's very interesting, Sgt. Moffitt," in reply. When Troy had introduced young Hitchcock as an "Ivy League" boy, he'd assumed that the two of them would have much in common. But no matter how hard he tried, the lad responded to his overtures in monosyllables or not at all.

It wasn't that Hitchcock was uncommunicative; he was still chatting away with Pettigrew as the two made their slow way to their tent. Not "Pettigrew," Moffitt reminded himself, "Tully." This American tradition of using Christian names was very odd. For the most part, Moffitt didn't even know the first names of his boyhood classmates or fellow students at the university. But for every rule there was an exception. Troy was "Sam," when he could remember at least, and Pettigrew was always "Tully," but Hitchcock was never "Mark." He answered to "Hitch," "Private," or "Hitchcock." Still another commonality he shared with the Englishman, and still another that didn't do one bit of good in establishing a genuine partnership.

Troy was looking quizzically at him, and he summoned up a smile.

"Give him a bit more time," Troy advised, correctly guessing the reason for the thoughtful look that had settled over Moffitt's lean features. "If Hitchcock doesn't come around soon, I'll have a talk with him."

"It's not a problem," Moffitt protested unconvincingly, hating the thought that he might be driving a wedge between Troy and the men he had commanded for nearly a year.

"It is," Troy contradicted. "We're a team or we're nothing. Now, let's go over what the Colonel told me. This one's going to be a doozy. A real killer." He winced as soon as the words left his lips, hoping that he hadn't just jinxed the thing.

"They want us to do _what_?" After more than two years in this bloody insane war, Moffitt thought he'd heard everything. "Break into the Classical Museum? Go after one of the world's greatest collections of Greco-Roman art? I won't do it, Troy, I won't steal or destroy artifacts."

"Will you keep it down?" Troy hissed, looking around. They were alone in the tent, but Moffitt's voice could easily carry beyond their canvas walls. "No one's suggesting that. We're not going to take anything _out_ , we're going to take something _in_."

"Maybe you'd better explain it again," Moffitt said tightly.

Troy gestured to the chair Moffitt had risen from, and grumbling slightly, the British sergeant retook his seat.

"Okay, you know that Hitler is nutty about ancient mythology. All that Aryan superiority mumbo jumbo. He wants proof that the Germans are the original master race."

"I'm familiar with the subject," Moffitt replied, biting back a reminder that it was he who had educated Troy on it. Of course, if it didn't have anything to do with Ancient Greece, Troy tended to tune him out.

"Well, we're going to give him proof. The brains back in London have come up with a fake artifact, just the kind of thing to make little Adolf swoon and his heart go pit-a-pat. We want the Nazis to steal it and haul it back to Berlin."

"Because . . . " Moffitt prompted.

"Because the thing's got a bug. With a little bit of luck, Hitler will have them bring it to his office. If things go according to plan, we'll be able to hear everything that goes on in there."

Moffitt frowned, but the idea had a certain appeal. Most of the world's foremost experts on Near Eastern archaeology were British. Men like Leonard Wooley, Reginald Campbell Thompson, and Max Mallowan were working in the SOE or similar organizations. He knew all of them, and knew that they were more than capable of creating a plausible artifact.

"So what is the artifact?"

"A previously suppressed section of the V – V-something Manuscripts."

"Vedic. They're going to put a listening device on a _manuscript_?" His voice was laden with skepticism.

"Nah. They're going to build it into a special ornamental box the manuscript's kept in."

Moffitt's head swam. The technical barriers must have been daunting. All in all, it sounded more like something out of a Hollywood thriller than the real world. And yet, he admitted to himself, it was just the sort of lunatic plan the "Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare" was using with such success. And after all, what was being risked other than a couple sergeants and privates?

"How are they explaining it?" he asked curiously,

"The SOE outdid themselves on this one," Troy grinned. "According to the story they've cooked up, there's a secret chapter of the manuscript, one which specifically describes blond, blue-eyed Nordic invaders from modern day Germany and Scandinavia who became the founders of the new Aryan race."

"Have you ever noticed how few Germans really are blue-eyed blonds?" Moffitt asked. "Pity Hitchcock doesn't speak German. Think how useful he could be."

Troy grinned. True, Hitch didn't speak German, but according to his school records, he had taken advanced French as well as introductory level Spanish. In this part of North Africa, French was almost as useful as Arabic. But for now, he kept the information to himself. "So, according to the story they've concocted, the French found the missing chapter back in the late 1800s, and hid it to keep the Germans from knowing their 'true' history. Then the British found out and helped conceal the 'truth.' When the Arabs heard about it, they claimed it was a fake. Which is true, of course," Troy laughed. "Or would have been if any of this had actually happened in the first place. Command has phony'd up some communications between London and some of the local leaders, using a code we know the Germans have broken. They discuss the manuscript and finally agree that it must be destroyed before the Germans find it. But, the story goes, it's been hidden for so long that no one remembers exactly where in the museum to look. London ordered the local Arab resistance to search for it. They're sending London regular progress reports but they haven't 'found' it yet. The SOE has identified two possible storerooms where we can hide it. We're to go in and hide the thing, and as soon as we do, the underground will send a message that they've narrowed the location down to one of those two rooms. Hopefully, the Nazis will decide to move quickly, once the hiding place has been narrowed down."

Hollywood thriller was right, Moffitt thought. But at the same time, it was just the kind of thing Hitler would buy: conspiracies, secret proof of the Aryan myth, underhanded British, corrupt French, untrustworthy Arabs. Yes, Hitler would go for it, alright.

"I spent many hours in the Red Castle when I was a boy," he said, referring to the museum by the name that had been in use during his childhood. "And I know my way around as well as anyone. That lower level where the storerooms are is a regular rabbit warren. But I didn't really take notes for future burglaries."

"We've got everything we need," Troy assured him, tapping a bulging envelope. "Floor plans of the interior, grounds patrol and museum guard schedules, even extra keys. We should be able to get in and out quickly. But . . ."

"Ah, there's always a 'but,' isn't there?"

"Well, we're the only ones who know about the operation. We won't have any backup from our own guys, and if we're caught, we're on our own."

"Oh Troy, I say – "

"Don't." Troy held up his hand. "The first plan was to establish credibility by having us 'find' the thing and the Jerries catching us in the act. I was able to talk them out of that, at least."

"You do know that Tripoli is the hub for Rommel's entire supply chain, correct? And one of the most heavily fortified outposts in North Africa?"

"Yeah, but we're not trying to attack it. We just need to get to the museum, hide the package, get back out, and then let the Germans have the pleasure of finding it themselves."

Moffitt looked at the plan from every direction, and finally nodded. It was worth the risk. Besides, playing der Fuhrer for a fool appealed to sense of humor. He gave a smile with his nod of agreement.

"Tripoli should be lovely this time of year," he said lightly, and laughed at the expression of deep suspicion on the American sergeant's face. "No, really Troy. Late October and early November are the best times to visit. The temperature will be right around 65-70 degrees. Sunset around sixish and sunrise around eight, so there'll be cover of darkness for us to get in and out. All in all, the timing couldn't be better."

"Whatever you say, Professor. I guess I'll have to take your word for it. For now, at least." His glare promised retribution if Moffitt was stringing him along.

 **CHAPTER 3**

It turned out that the timing actually _could_ have been better. It was five days not one before the Rat Patrol left for Tripoli. Allied forces were planning a major offensive through North Africa, aimed at taking Tripoli, and opening up a staging area for an invasion of Europe through its "soft underbelly" in Italy. They would move east, while Montgomery's force would move west from Egypt, trapping the Germans between their two forces. Of course this information was highly classified, so the planners in the SOE had been unaware of the pending action. It was only at the last moment, when details of both operations went high enough to land on the same person's desk, that a red flag went up. When the general realized what had happened, both were quickly put on hold. It took London and Washington a couple of extra days to coordinate all the various actions and make sure the two ops wouldn't be interfering with or tripping over one another. Finally, Operation Torch and their own, much smaller Operation Wedding Present were greenlighted. With the usual need-to-know mentality, Troy wasn't informed of the planned offensive. All that he was told was that they had to get in, complete the mission, and get back to their own lines by the 8th of November.

The team put the extra time to good use, studying the museum's alarm system and committing its floor plan to memory. They practiced at night until all four of them could pace off distances with perfect accuracy and move smoothly through a practice course in complete darkness. Two of the store rooms on the lower level would be their target, and they couldn't risk one of the team stumbling into a breakable artifact or falling down the uneven stone steps. The stone walls of the lower level had many hidden cavities, and it was in one of these "abditories" that they would conceal the box.

When the plan was explained to Hitch and Tully, they responded with enthusiasm. Troy's reference to Tully's experiences running moonshine hadn't been a joke. The laconic young private had a larcenous streak and an oddball sense of humor that had him on board immediately. Hitchcock gave an amused half-smile and said he hoped word of his foray into cat burglary never reached his father's ears, but his slight smirk revealed that he was trying to figure out how to accomplish just that.

Rommel had allowed the Italians to continue their occupation of Tripoli and the surrounding areas, preferring to keep his troops free for ongoing military operations, so Moffitt's German would be little help. None of the four spoke Italian, although Moffitt understood a bit. Troy finally grudgingly admitted a basic familiarity with the language without explaining how, encouraging Hitchcock to allow that he had a vocabulary of a few hundred words. Most of them came from his boyhood music lessons and librettos from the operas his parents had dragged him to. He laughed that phrases like _"volti subito_ " or " _sempre staccato_ " wouldn't be terribly useful, although _andante_ and _risoluto_ might be helpful. He personally would be happy if there were an opportunity to use _appassionato_ or _con amore_. Both Troy and Moffitt glared at him, and even Tully seemed to catch enough meaning to smile around his matchstick. Hitch and the sergeants decided to pool their meagre linguistic resources and used some of the extra time to coach Tully and pick up a few new phrases themselves. Understanding and being able to use basic orders like "Halt!" and "Drop your weapons!" could make a huge difference if they were spotted.

On the fifth day the "package" arrived, and they all huddled together in the Colonel's quarters to inspect it under the eagle eye of the British major who had delivered it. It was a large chest, larger than Troy had expected, roughly three feet by four feet and eighteen inches deep. The entire surface was inlaid with a complex geometric pattern of lapis, turquoise, carnelian, ivory, mother of pearl, and coral. Thin lines of copper, silver and gold were woven through the pattern. If Troy hadn't known that it had been produced a few weeks earlier, he would have sworn that he was looking at a genuine thousand year old artifact. Moffitt couldn't contain an expression of admiration at the forged manuscript. It was mostly script that was itself a work of art, but there were occasional illustrations as well, their colors artfully aged to honeyed golds and tans.

"The old boys have outdone themselves," Moffitt observed, brushing the edge of one of the large, folio-sized pages with the lightest of touches. It crumbled realistically, reinforcing the major's warning that the extreme fragility of the contents made careful handling essential. "I'm not sure I'd spot this as a fake if I found it."

"Where's the bug?" Tully asked curiously, studying the chest.

"Each surface is actually made up of two identical layers," the major explained. "The power cells are sandwiched in-between. Essentially, the walls and sides together form the battery. Or rather sets of batteries. We've got it wired so that as one set goes dead it activates the next one. Altogether there are eighteen sets, each good for just under thirty hours. That's about three weeks' worth."

"And the microphone?" Troy asked curiously.

The major's finger gently traced one of the copper threads. "It's built right into the mosaic pattern."

"What kind of range does it have?" Hitch asked, putting on his glasses and studying the surface.

"It will pick up conversations in about a 20 foot radius. It can transmit them a bit over two hundred yards. We'll still have to get an operative close to pick up the transmissions. But that's our job. You just get it hidden for us. But not too well, mind you," he half-warned with a smile. "Jerry has to be able to find it."

"Any chance the Germans will have the Italians do the searching?" Tully asked.

"Definitely not. Even if Hitler trusted the Eyties, Rommel doesn't. No, they'll take care of this themselves." He reached for the box. "Last chance for a look, gentlemen. I'm sealing it. The next time it's opened, the mechanism will set itself to 'stand by,' and the time after that triggers the microphone. Once it starts, it won't stop until all the batteries are dead, so _don't_ decide you'd like another look. We'd much prefer that the clock doesn't start until it arrives in Berlin." The look he gave them stopped just short of a glare, making sure he got his message across.

"Now, your route. It's marked out on the maps."

"Sir," Tully said hesitantly. "Could I ask why we aren't approaching by water?"

The major hesitated for the briefest of moments. He couldn't give the real answer: that the coming invasion would include an amphibious landing. No one wanted to do anything that would call the Germans' attention to their coastal defenses. "A water approach is just too risky. Not so much for getting in as for getting back out." That had the merit of being true, as well. It just hadn't been the primary factor.

The four commandos exchanged looks of surprise. Generally speaking, the brass seemed to forget about their safety once the objective had been achieved. They weren't used to as much consideration being given to their extraction as to their insertion.

The major caught their startled expression and smiled grimly. He was tired of seeing good men wasted, left behind or abandoned. There may be a million more to replace them, but it was still wrong.

"We also thought the odds would be improved if you were able to link up with the local resistance. Our contact is called Ibrahim. He'll provide any help you might need. You'll rendezvous _here,"_ his finger tapped a spot on the map south of Tripoli. "Basic QAQ recognition code. You'll ask, 'Is this the road to Benghazi,' and he'll reply, 'No, you are too far west.' Then you'll ask, 'Can you show us the way?'"

"Sir, will this be in Italian? Arabic?" Moffitt asked.

"Either. English will be fine, too. Ibrahim speaks all three."

"Italian," Troy muttered under his breath. "Wouldn't you know." A few months back, his parents had passed along some of the letters they'd received from family back in Greece. His uncles and cousins had described how the Greeks had beaten back the Italians, only to find themselves facing German troops who intervened and completed the invasion. Once the Germans had subdued the Greeks, they brought back Italian and Bulgarian forces to run the occupation. The offense to Greek pride, always a highly sensitive thing, was huge, and made relations between the two traditional enemies even more strained than normal.

The major heard him.

"About a third of Tripoli's population is Italian, Sergeant. And the native Libyan citizens are required to take an oath of loyalty to Italy and be granted special citizenship status to get a job, join the army, I believe even do something as prosaic as drive a taxi cab."

"So why is it called the 'Castle'?" Tully asked.

"It really – " Moffitt caught himself, realizing too late that the question had been addressed to the major, but with a gesture of his hand, Llewellyn signaled him to continue.

"It really is a castle, Tully, or more properly, a fortress. It was originally a Roman site, some say maybe an even older Carthaginian site. It was built in about the first or second century. The Italians converted part of it to a museum just before the Great War, but its original purpose was to protect the city from invasion by sea."

"So it's built right on the water?" Troy asked.

"Exactly. The entrance used today is off Martyr's Square, but it is still possible to approach by water."

"Wow." Tully shook his head. Since arriving in North Africa, he'd seen things that stirred his Kentucky soul to its depths. Sometimes he'd get letters from some of his friends and buddies in England or the Pacific, but he doubted that even they would have the chance to wander freely through a 2000 year old building. Suddenly, the dangers of the mission seemed far less important than the opportunity to do just that, especially under the direction of a guide like the doc.

"Wow indeed," Moffitt murmured, his eyes briefly meeting the private's. They crinkled slightly in agreement, and a tiny connection was formed between the two.

The meeting went on a bit longer, breaking up just before midnight, as they memorized the details of their route. The first stages of their journey would be made during daylight, but once they approached German-occupied territory, they'd be traveling under cover of darkness. They had one last night for sleep, then they'd be on their way.

 **CHAPTER 4**

They left an hour or so before dawn, in the back of a salmon pink Ford truck packed with boxes and their own crate. Necessity had taught them to sleep almost anywhere, but the constant bucking and swaying made it impossible for Troy to nod off. Hitch joked that the rough ride was the truck's way of exacting revenge for its color, one which any self-respecting military vehicle would be ashamed to wear in public. Ever precise and informative, Moffitt explained that the British Long Range Desert Groups had determined that the color blended almost perfectly with the pinkish haze of a desert dusk or dawn, effectively camouflaging them from both aerial and ground observation. That shut Hitch down, and he didn't so much as open his mouth again until midmorning, when travel became more hazardous and they stopped to eat and rest, holed up under camouflage nets.

Troy successfully managed not to sigh, but he couldn't hold back a shake of his head. The little joke had been the first sign of normalcy since their new team member had joined the unit. Whether Moffitt realized it or not, his pedantic explanation was not only unnecessary, it had held the faint flavor of a reprimand, particularly since Hitch and Tully already knew just about everything there was to know about military vehicles, including colors and camouflage. Moffitt had a sense of humor, Troy knew; a dry, sardonic wit that amused even as it bit. But Moffitt didn't allow it to surface during a mission and apparently preferred that his teammates do the same. Troy hadn't wanted to head out on a risky mission with these problems festering, but the war wasn't going to wait while Hitch got himself a thicker skin and Moffitt forget that this wasn't a classroom and Hitch wasn't his pupil.

They continued to travel north and east for another day, unconsciously tracing the route that the army would be taking in only another week or two. At the eastern border of the Allied lines, they left the truck and picked up two jeeps. None of the four had wanted to admit it, but they were uncomfortable with someone else driving. In their jeeps, they were more exposed but they felt more in control. For the next three days they traveled mostly at night, shifting course in a series of eastward and southward steps until they finally reached southern Tunisia at its narrowest point. They crossed into and out of the German-occupied territory in a matter of hours.

Up until now, their route had been general and flexible and their orders clear: work their way toward Libya and avoid being seen. It was a big desert, and its hundred thousand or so Bedouin inhabitants couldn't keep track of everyone who ventured into their territory. Now, though, they had entered Libya and their route had been carefully laid out for them. Moffitt navigated, bringing them to a stop about twenty miles from Tripoli's southern edge.

"We'll hold up here," Moffitt finally announced. "We're a bit early. I don't want to approach the rendezvous location before dark."

"And it's . . . where, again?" Tully asked.

"Maybe we should take a last look at the layout," Troy suggested. "Moffitt?"

Moffitt took out his knife and began drawing in the sand. "Here's the Mediterranean." The knife tip traced a broad concave curve. "And Tripoli. Martyr's Square is _here_." A small square was marked just below the coastline, near a cape in the northwestern side of the city, "And the museum is _here_." A small circle was marked just north of the square, right on the water. "We're here." Now the knife moved well below their destination. "And in-between our position and the city are the An Nasr forest and the zoo." The knife traced a largish rectangle. "That's where we'll leave the jeeps and meet Ibrahim and Sayed. They'll take us through the forest and into the city as far as the square. There are major roads that would get us there quickly, but I suspect they'll want to use the back alleys."

"I still don't believe it," Hitch said skeptically. "A forest?"

"Yes, indeed. A real forest, and a fairly large one, too. It's mostly scrub, and none of the trees get all that tall, but it offers plenty of places to hide the jeeps and lose anyone who might be following us. One of Ibrahim's friends will stay behind to guard them, and we'll pick them back up on our way out." He continued to draw in the sand, pausing just east of the museum. "And here's another interesting spot, which also dates back to Roman times. The Marcus Aurelius Arch."

Hitch choked and sputtered, and Tully had to slap him on the back a couple times.

"Sorry," he wheezed. "Swallowed wrong."

Troy eyed the Englishman, but there was nothing in his bland expression to indicate that he was aware of Hitchcock's full name. The little travelogue continued, as Moffitt pointed out more landmarks that would keep them on the right track if their guide didn't show. Clearly, he knew the city well, and Troy was pleased to see that Hitchcock didn't seem to begrudge him the role of expert. The British sergeant had actually traveled the streets and alleys going to and from their target, and Hitch and Tully clearly appreciated the value of his personal knowledge.

"What about the chest?" Troy asked. "We aren't going to have to carry it all that way, are we?"

Moffitt shrugged. "I imagine Ibrahim knows it's fragile and will have a cart of some sort, or even a donkey or two, so even if we have to walk, our artifact can ride." He sighed. "I don't know about you fellows, but I'd like to get a few hours' sleep."

Troy nodded. "Tully, Hitch, you bunk down, too. I'll take watch."

"I'll do it, Sarge," Hitch offered.

He glanced toward the crate in the back of the jeep. "You and Tully have been driving for days. Get some rest while you can, because there sure won't be time to nap once we get that thing hidden. We'll need to turn straight around and head back toward our lines, so I need you as fresh as possible. I can catch some shuteye in the jeep on the way."

It took no time at all to cover their jeeps with camouflage netting, and within minutes the three were sleeping peacefully. Troy kept a close eye on the sky and the horizon, all the while worrying about the upcoming mission.

Sam Troy had learned to school his features to calm confidence, but inside he sweated out each detail of each plan. This operation was even worse than usual, because he was still uneasy about the newcomer's influence on his team. Attention to every element of an operation was the best way to quell these attacks of nerves, so he welcomed the chance to do a final assessment in private.

The sun was just setting when Troy roused his men. He already had coffee ready, and poured out a cup for everyone. Hitch and Tully accepted theirs without comment, and even Moffitt took his without a word about the superiority of tea.

"I've been thinking," Troy said as they drank. "The description you gave us was helpful, Jack, but you're the only one who really knows the city. And if we split up, there's a better shot at getting at least some of us back to report. So, I think we need to have a plan in case we're separated." He looked at the three faces and saw frowns. "Tully, Hitch, and I don't know our way around, and in the dark it will be even harder. So, if we need to, Tully, you and I should stay with Ibrahim. He can help to find our way back through the city. Hitch, you stick with Moffitt. Your orders are to proceed with all due speed back to our lines without us." He captured Moffitt's eyes and held them in an intense gaze. "Since you already know the area, you and Hitch can get back to the rendezvous point without a guide."

"But Sarge . . ."

Troy stifled Hitchcock's incipient complaint with a shake of his head.

"Hitch, we have to play the percentages."

The private dropped his eyes. "It just wouldn't feel right, leaving you and Tully behind," he muttered. He glanced up for a brief moment, his eyes betraying his concern and uncertainty.

Surprisingly, it was Moffitt who spoke up in agreement.

"I agree with Hitch." Not Hitchcock. Even in such a tense moment, Troy noted the use of the nickname appreciatively. Maybe Moffitt was starting to catch on. "I don't like the idea of being separated. What was the quotation from your Confederate General Longstreet? At Gettysburg, when he didn't have Pickett's brigade available yet? He said it was . . . like . . . like . . ." He paused, searching his memory for the words.

"'Like going into battle with one boot off,'" Tully finished for him. "You a Civil War buff, Doc?"

"Arthur Freemantle's memoirs were required reading when I was a schoolboy. A good portion of his book deals with Gettysburg. He had a lot of respect for both Lee and General Longstreet."

"I've always been a J. L. Chamberlain fan, myself," Hitch piped up. "The 20th Maine? Little Round Top?"

"The perfect 'citizen soldier,'" Moffitt noted approvingly. "Scholar, leader, writer, tactician, husband and father . . . Too bad our Chamberlain wasn't made of the same stuff. This war might not have even been necessary if he hadn't trusted Hitler to keep his word."

"Chamberlain managed to hold off Colonel Oates, who was one of Longstreet's best," Tully offered.

"And outnumbered him by eight or nine to one," Hitch added.

"Thus proving the value of holding the high ground," Moffitt noted.

Troy watched the byplay in silence, feeling better about the mission with every word. The British sergeant had finally found some common ground with the two privates.

"Well," he finally interjected. "I don't want to split us up, but I do want to be prepared if it becomes necessary. So keep it in mind." He tossed the dregs of his coffee on the small fire. "How long should it take us to get to the rendezvous point, Moffitt?"

"We'll be moving slowly. Two hours. Perhaps as much as three."

He looked at his watch. "We rendezvous in just over three hours. It would be impolite to make our hosts wait. Let's shake it, gentlemen. Time's a wastin'."

Tully and Hitchcock always kept their jeeps running at peak efficiency, but even so they gave them a thorough going-over before signaling to the sergeants that they could move out. Troy dozed, the back of his mind figuring that they couldn't be moving more than six or eight miles per hour, in as close to silence as any mechanical device could come. On Moffitt's recommendation, they took a meandering route, avoiding any clear indication of their destination.

The green smudge of trees to the north confirmed at least part of Moffitt's story. There was definitely a forest or something darn close to it ahead of them. Like far-away mountains, the trees seemed no more than a tantalizing distant illusion for the next two hours. They never seemed to be any closer.

"I'm starting the think the damn things are just a mirage," Tully finally complained to Troy, getting a flash of white teeth in agreement.

But then Moffitt signaled them to stop.

"We're about fifteen minutes from the tree line," he called. "Ibrahim and Sayed will watch for us about a half mile in, so keep your eyes open. We don't want to miss them."

The drivers aimed their jeeps forward, resisting the impulse to speed up now that their destination was within reach, Hitchcock and Moffitt in the lead. Now the Americans could also tell that they were getting close, and after a quick word with Hitch, Moffitt jumped out to walk alongside the slow-moving vehicle. At the edge of the trees, he stepped ahead to lead the way on foot.

The trees swallowed them up, crowding them from all sides but not tall enough to form a canopy overhead. It was eerie, and the oddest forest any of the Americans had ever encountered. Tully, in particular, accustomed to the dense forests of burr oak and red maple back home in Kentucky, felt his scalp prickle and the hairs on his arms stand at attention.

They crept forward, and then, out of nowhere, an old man stepped out from behind the trees a dozen or so yards ahead. As they drew closer, they could see a pair of faded but alert brown eyes regarding them from a wrinkled face the color and texture of a walnut shell. He wore the traditional _Sunnah_ beard, a tangle of wiry gray reaching nearly to the middle button of his blue and brown striped _jalabiyyah_.

Moffitt cleared his throat. "Is this the road to Benghazi?" he asked.

The old man said nothing, and Moffitt repeated the question in Arabic.

"No, my friend. You are too far west," a voice replied in English.

They whirled to see another man emerge from the trees, a young man with a mocking smile on his lips and an expression of sardonic amusement in his black-coffee eyes.

But what really caught their attention was that he wore the uniform of an Italian army lieutenant.


	2. Part 2 The Mission Ch 5-9

**PART II**

 **CHAPTER 5**

Hands flashed to side arms, and Moffitt exchanged a quick look with Troy. Getting a slight nod, Moffitt drew a deep breath. "Can you show us the way?"

"Sergeant Troy?" the man replied.

"Here." Troy waggled a finger, but his grip on the butt of his weapon never loosened. "Am I speaking to Ibrahim?"

"You are. And this is . . .?" he said, turning back to Moffitt.

"Jack Moffitt." The two shook hands.

"Ah, the Englishman. Your knowledge of Arabic is impressive, although you speak with the accent of the Levant." Ibrahim turned to the two privates. "And you are Pettigrew and Hitchcock, am I correct?"

"Yes, sir." The two nodded.

"My colleague, Sayed." He snapped his fingers and the old man straightened. With his head tilted slightly to one side, Sayed gave an unexpectedly courtly nod.

"You'll have to forgive me for being careful, but . . ." Troy nodded at the young man's uniform, and his eyes were hard and suspicious.

"This? Ah, yes. This." Another smile thinned his lips. "Our Italian 'friends,' in a gesture of generosity and trust, allow some of us to renounce our own homeland and pledge allegiance to theirs. As a 'reward' we are made almost half-men, not fully Italian but no longer Libyan, and allowed to serve them and their German masters." The young man's expression never changed, and his voice remained light, but there was something buried deep in in those dark eyes that made Troy shudder. But at least he no longer wondered about their guide's sincerity. This man hated the Italians and the Germans, that much was clear.

Then the moment passed, and Ibrahim became brisk and efficient.

"You can take the jeeps forward another kilometer or so – about half a mile, that is. We will show you where to hide them. Ahmed!" He snapped his fingers again, and this time a boy, no more than ten years old emerged from the trees. He was unkempt and ragged, but the rifle he carried gleamed with oil and polish. He held their eyes, making the resemblance to Ibrahim obvious.

"Ahmed will stay and watch your vehicles."

Evidently the boy understood English, because the corners of his mouth turned down in a mutinous frown. "I should go with you and Sayed can stay to watch the jeeps. He is old – " he threw a contemptuous look at the old man, "– and of no use in a fight."

"We have discussed this. Sayed cannot drive, and if the jeeps must be moved he cannot do so. You will stay here and keep our father from worry."

Ahmed turned from boy warrior to whiny child in the blink of an eye. "But Ibrahim, you promised."

"I promised you could help. Now help!" He lifted his hand in warning, and Ahmed scampered over to Troy's jeep. He jumped on the hood and waited until Tully and Troy retook their seats.

"I will point the way," he announced grandly. "Follow me exactly."

Ibrahim shook his head, more annoyed than amused by his brother's antics.

"Don't be angry with him," Moffitt said kindly. "I have a younger brother, too, as does Troy."

"Me, too," piped up Tully.

"Don't look at me. I have sisters," Hitch added defensively.

"Ibrahim, we understand. Younger brothers can be very difficult to manage," Moffitt went on, "particularly when they admire their brothers and want to be like them."

For a moment, Ibrahim wavered. But then he nodded. "You are the diplomat of the group, I see. Very well, Ahmed will not receive the reprimand he deserves." His eyes narrowed. " _This_ time."

He and Moffitt continued on foot, while Sayed got into the jeep with Hitch. The man's face split into a delighted smile as they began to move, and with a few broken words of English, a dash of French, a word or two of Italian, and a great many hand gestures, he managed to convey that this was only the second time he had ridden in any conveyance not pulled by an animal.

Ahead, Ahmed had directed Tully to a gully, then instructed him to drive into it "from behind." Ibrahim caught up in time to hear, and with a bark of laughter and a semi-playful cuff to his brother's head, told the private, "He means backwards. So you can drive straight forward in the case you must leave in a hurry."

Tully skillfully backed the jeep into the ravine, then waited while Hitch did the same. They clambered out to find Ibrahim dusting a covering of leaves away from a pile of _jalabiyyahs_.

"Cover up," he ordered, tossing one to each of them. He studied them critically. "Sergeant Troy, Sergeant Moffitt, you could possibly pass for Italian, but my understanding is that you don't speak the language. Correct?" They nodded. "There is nothing we can do about those blue eyes," he noted, "so you and Private Hitchcock, try to keep your faces down. You," he nodded towards Hitchcock, "and you," another nod towards Tully, "be sure to keep your fair hair under cover."

While they hurriedly covered their uniforms with the robes, Sayed went back behind the trees and returned pushing a hand cart. He gestured, and Hitch, who was beginning to get the hang of communicating with the old man, went to get the crate with the chest from the back of Troy's jeep. Tully hurried to help, and together they stowed it in the bottom of the cart. A colorful scarf was unearthed and draped over it, and more scarves hung from the rails surrounding the top of the cart. Lengths of fabric were stacked on the top shelf, and in moments the chest was completely concealed and the cart became just another of the dozens one could see pushed by vendors on any Arab street.

"Now," Ibrahim announced, after giving a tug and a poke to Tully's keffiyah, making sure all the definitely non-Libyan hair underneath was covered. "We walk."

With an "I told you so" look at Troy, Hitch trudged forward. Sayed, who seemed to have adopted the young man, chattered away, clasping him on the shoulder occasionally. The young man's eyes glazed over after a time, but he did his best to communicate, nodding and smiling, while secretly wondering if he had just promised to marry one of the old man's six daughters. Or maybe he was being offered one of the old man's six wives . . .

From time to time they traded off, taking turns pushing the cart. They had reached a path, and its hard-packed earth made the going a bit easier, but as the darkness became more profound they were painfully aware of just how much trust they were putting in Ibrahim and his companion. Even Sayed had fallen silent by the time they reached the streets of the city.

Moffitt had been correct in his guess that Ibrahim would stay off the main streets. The alleys were narrow and dark, but they still made good time. Troy figured it was near midnight or just a bit after when they reached the edge of Martyr's Square.

Ibrahim gave them whispered directions, but they were unnecessary. The fortress was visible from where they had stopped. But his final instructions were important.

"I will return here at four o'clock. That gives you several hours. That will be enough?"

They nodded. It would have to be.

"I cannot wait more than thirty minutes," he warned, and they nodded. "Good. Allah go with you, my friends." He gestured towards a small alcove. "I will wait there. Signal me when you return. Take a match to light a cigarette. Let the first one burn out, then strike a second. That will be my signal that it is safe to approach. Yes?"

"Yes," Troy said with a nod. "Thank you, Ibrahim."

"Thank me when you return. Or thank me not at all. To make fools of the Germans is all the thanks I require. Good luck."

He melted into the shadows and disappeared.

Troy glanced at each of his men. "Everyone ready?" They nodded. "Any last minute questions?" They shook their heads. "Moffitt, you got that stopwatch and the keys?" A nod. "Okay then. Let's go."

And pulling the crate from the cart and nodding to Sayed, they made their way through the shadows to the arched stone entrance, then through it to the imposing Red Castle.

 **Chapter 6**

It wasn't a moonless night; there was the smallest possible sliver of silver-white, just enough to allow them to keep their feet and find their way while still shrouded in darkness.

In the war's early months, skirmishes broke out regularly between Italian and British forces, but before long, those skirmishes escalated into savage combat. Over the past two years, Italian, German, and Allied troops had swept back and forth across the prized North African territory, eager to control its Mediterranean ports and access to the region's oil. Italy's most recent offensive, at the beginning of 1941, had been an unmitigated disaster, forcing their German allies to come to their rescue yet again. In less than a month, Rommel had pushed Montgomery's Eighth Army back all the way to Egypt and completed the conquest of Libya, leaving the Italians in charge as occupation forces. By then, much of Tripoli was in ruins, with massive destruction from the Italian and German invasions compounded by Allied bombings and efforts to shut down the ports. The Axis powers rapidly tightened the screws on the city's Jewish neighborhoods as well, further intensifying the misery and despair that overhung the city.

But Martyr's Square and the Red Castle formed a small oasis of relative calm. Like the rest of Tripoli, they were blacked out, but it was possible for the four commandos to find their way to their chosen point of entry: a little-used door on the eastern side of the fortress. Every hour, there was a narrow space of minutes when the paths of the outdoor patrols were out of synch with the museum guards inside. That's when they would enter.

They paused in the shadows to replace their boots with rubber-soled shoes. They shed their native robes and covered their heads with black knit watch caps. Folding up the cloth, Hitch shoved it inside his shirt, looking down and poking the unfamiliar paunch with a bemused look. He seemed to recall the same silhouette on his Uncle Titus, and hoped he wasn't getting an early glimpse of his own future. Catching his sergeant's impatient eye, he refocused, keeping watch with Tully while Troy turned his attention to the radium dial of his watch. Moffitt waited alertly for Troy's signal to start the stopwatch.

But the designated time came and went with no activity. Silently signaling Tully and Hitchcock to check further, Troy waited tensely until they returned. Faint shakes of both heads indicated that neither had spotted any of the guards. The Italian soldiers seemed to have totally abandoned their regular patrols and could be anywhere. Or nowhere.

Troy briefly wondered whether this was just Italian disregard of military discipline; the same kind of disregard that had forced the Germans to come to their rescue on so many occasions. Or could Ibrahim have betrayed them and given false reports of the patrol schedule? But the cause was irrelevant. They had to work with the situation as they actually found it, not as they expected to. Signaling to Moffitt, he silently directed him to take Hitch and move more deeply into the shadows where they could provide cover while he and Tully concentrated on the door.

The key turned smoothly, and the door was opened a silent inch or two on its newly oiled hinges. Troy felt a bit of his concern about Ibrahim and his partisans ease. They had followed through on this part of the plan, at least. He studied as much of the room as the small gap allowed, but mostly he listened. He waited a full sixty seconds, then, seeing and hearing nothing, he eased the door open far enough to poke his head through. Satisfied that their presence was undetected, he signaled Hitch and Tully to carry the crate inside. Everyone released pent-up breaths they weren't even aware of holding when it was lowered to the floor and the door closed securely behind them. But gaining access to the museum was only the first step, and in many ways the easiest. Things would only get more difficult from here, since all the carefully gathered intelligence about the guards' schedules and movements was obviously useless.

Still, despite the urgency of their mission, he and his men couldn't help but pause in stunned admiration at what lay in front of them.

It was a hall filled with statuary, all of it Greco-Roman. The white marble gleamed in the darkness with a life of its own, as if the faint invading moonlight had somehow been captured and imprisoned in the figures. Some of the statues were grouped in such a way that they seemed to recline casually against white stone walls, some sat on pedestals, a few held harps or other musical instruments. And others leaned attentively, as if enjoying a fascinating conversation with friends.

It made Troy's scalp prickle, and he shot a look at the Englishman. A slight smile played around Moffitt's lips as he returned Troy's look.

"Someone seems to have . . . rearranged the exhibits since my last visit," he whispered. _Someone with an odd sense of humor_ , he added to himself.

Troy was never sure just how long they stood there, transfixed, but distant footfalls warned them to be alert. Moffitt led them to a narrow staircase and one by one, weaving around one another in a complex dance, they made their way downward to the cellar. Hitchcock and Tully continued to carry the crate between them, their grips on the rope handles attached to its sides never relaxing until they reached the bottom step.

The darkness that swallowed them was an almost physical thing, night to the dusk of the gallery above. Troy remembered that Moffitt had called this haphazard series of basement rooms a "rabbit warren." More like a prairie dog colony, he decided, remembering the huge, complex, underground constructions he had seen in Kansas, Wyoming, and Nebraska. Those days were long past, when he was young and enthusiastic, and dreamed of traveling the world as a nature photographer. Well, he was traveling the world alright, just not quite in the way he'd imagined. Fate had had something else in mind for him, and put his quick eyes and accurate visual memory to a different use. By now he could barely recapture the memory of those days, let alone the fascination of tracing the lines and pathways of a colony.

Gratitude shimmered around the edges of concern as he witnessed the result of all their night practice. Everyone moved silently, competently, without questions or hesitation. Any approaching guard would almost certainly give himself away with his footsteps or flashlight, but their soft-soled shoes made no sound and they could find their way even in perfect darkness.

Once again Moffitt took the lead, the three Americans following him by some innate instinct rather than by sound or sight. There was no sound at all when the storeroom door was opened; they knew it was there only as they brushed against it as they entered.

The door was closed, a bolt shot, and a faint creak indicated that the lid of the crate was being removed. Then a rustle, and a form that Troy somehow know was Hitchcock, was tucking his _jalabiyyah_ across the threshold of the door.

"Door's blocked, Sarge," he whispered.

"There should be an electric – there, that will do it." A feeble light tried to push back the darkness, wavering as Moffitt released the bulb dangling from the ceiling. It swung gently by a dangerously frayed cord, casting random shadows that made the dozens of boxes and objects seem to move of their own volition.

It took several minutes to shift everything into the center of the room. More minutes than they had to spare. But hours of practice had taught them what to look for when searching for the hidden cavities, and once the walls were exposed, they spread out. Each of the four took one wall, pulling out their own small flashlights to aid in their search.

Moffitt was the first to find one, but it was tiny, barely large enough to hold an orange, so it was closed up and the search continued. Tully came next, locating one only inches from the ceiling. This was even smaller than Moffitt's, and it held a small scarab.

"Very nice," Moffitt said approvingly, studying it by the light of his flash. He weighed it in his hand, then reluctantly handed it back to the private. "Best put it back, Tully."

"Right, Doc." He flashed a quick grin. "Maybe after the war we can come back and visit."

"Stow it," Troy hissed. "We only have a bit over two hours left."

Troy found two in a row, then Hitch found one, but none one was large enough to hold the manuscript. Troy was growing increasingly tense. He could feel the time rushing away, and worried that there wouldn't be enough to give the second room a thorough search.

More hiding placed were located, and Troy actually begin to wish they wouldn't find them at all if they were too small to use. There was so little time left; they had no alternative but to move on to the second storeroom.

Then, just as Troy was about to order his men to leave, Hitchcock's flashlight swept the room one last time.

"Sarge! Sergeant Moffitt! Take a look." He was on his knees, examining the floor and walls in the far west corner.

"What is it, Hitch?" Moffitt asked, joining him.

"Not sure. The flash caught a funny shadow. The floor . . ."

Moffitt joined him, looking over the private's shoulder. He could see what Hitch meant. By indirect light he could see that the corner where the walls met didn't seem to form a ninety degree angle, and the floor wasn't quite flat.

"Let me in there, Hitch," he murmured. Long fingers glided over the rough surfaces, probed gently above and to either side. None of the Americans could be quite sure what the archaeologist touched, but there was a soft click and a large wedge of stone, looking like nothing so much as a wheel of cheese with a large piece removed, swung outward.

"Some sort of spring-loaded balance?" Tully suggested from behind him.

"I think so. Hand me your torch." Tully looked blank, and Moffitt impatiently added, "Your flashlight. Hand me your flashlight."

It was quickly evident that the space was empty, and just as evident that it was more than large enough for their chest.

"What do you think?" Troy frowned, concerned that if they had nearly missed it, the Germans might too.

"We found it," Hitch shrugged.

"I think we should use it. Remember, the Germans are motivated, and they aren't working with our time constraints. Besides, we have a bit less than an hour to meet Ibrahim. It's our only option."

"Okay, Tully, Hitch, unpack that thing," Troy ordered, acknowledging Moffitt's words with a sharp nod. Now back of his neck was prickling, too. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't get out fast enough.

The lid to the wooden crate was removed. The chest was carefully lifted out, and then gently eased into the space. Moffitt pulled out a small canvas bag and poured a palmful of dust out into his hand. With a few light puffs, he blew it carefully into the cavity where it settled across the top and around the base of the artifact. He repeated the process several more times, checking critically to be sure the coating looked like the natural accumulation of a half dozen decades or so, then finally nodded.

"That should do it." He maneuvered the wedge of stone back into place.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." Troy's instincts were screaming at him that it was time to go.

Struggling to avoid sacrificing silence for speed, they moved the room's contents back into place against the walls. More dust was blown and scattered over their surfaces, obscuring any sign that they had been moved. They backed up to the door, Moffitt scattering more dust to cover their footprints. Finally, the cloth was removed from the bottom of the door and stowed back in Hitch's shirt at the same moment that Moffitt reached up to turn off the light.

It took every ounce of determination Troy could summon to hold them there until their eyes readjusted to the darkness. Finally he whispered, "Tully."

The oiled bolt slid back silently. Troy tapped Tully's shoulder and took his place, inching the door open. The darkness outside was every bit as profound as that inside the room, and with another tap, he signaled Tully to move out. Once in the corridor, the private checked to his left and right, then squeezed against the wall and gave it two soft taps. Troy moved Hitch out next, and the blond positioned himself on the opposite side of the door from Tully. Tully tapped three times, and Moffitt left, carrying the now empty wooden crate. Finally it was Troy's turn. He stepped through, relocking the door from the outside.

Hitch took the crate, leaving Moffitt free to once again lead the way through the darkness. The Englishman stopped at one of the jumbled storerooms near the base of the stairs, waiting while Troy unlocked the door and Hitch dropped his burden near the back wall. Then, they repeated their dance, each climbing two of the stone stairs before allowing the next man to move around and ahead of him.

To a man, they were grateful for the hard marble floors of the gallery. Even the most light-footed guard couldn't move silently on that surface. But they felt no relief when they reached the door. There was no way to tell what stood beyond it.

 **Chapter 7**

In the back of his mind, Troy had been worrying about this moment since they entered the museum. The decision had long since been made, but only now acknowledged. They'd have to separate.

"Moffitt, Hitch, can you get out of the upstairs windows and onto the roof?"

"I think so," Moffitt answered. "What are you thinking? The archways?"

Troy nodded. "Right," Thanks to its origins as a fortress, the top of the building offered numerous observation points. It was surrounded by a high wall with open archways, not unlike the false fronts on buildings in the American west. These allowed a full view of the grounds and surrounding area. "You could spot any patrols and signal us to hold up."

He felt more than saw the nods of agreement.

"How do you want us to signal you, Sarge?" Hitch asked.

"If I don't hear anything by …" he checked his watch, "0345, I'll assume it's safe and Tully and I will leave and meet Ibrahim."

"I don't know about that," Moffitt frowned. "There could be several reasons why we didn't signal you, including being captured."

"We could use Ibrahim's idea of a match," Tully suggested. "It might just look like someone having a smoke. One means 'go,' and two mean 'wait.'"

Troy considered it. At that height, and during a blackout, a match could be a dead giveaway. The light would fill the staircase and bounce off that white marble like a beacon. "How about throwing down some small stones, instead? There should be plenty up there. One of you come back in and skip 'em down the stairs. One for go, two for wait, three for hide. Wait two minutes, then repeat the signal, just so we know it wasn't a random noise."

Moffitt nodded. "All right." He hesitated. "I think we should stay on watch after you get outside the door. You may need the extra cover to get off the grounds."

"Yeah," Troy agreed unhappily.

"We can't rappel down; we don't have any climbing equipment with us. And those parapets are too high for us to climb down freehand," he continued quietly, relentlessly. "We'll have to get back inside and come down by the stairs. Could take a while."

"I know." Troy met Moffitt's eyes, barely visible in the reflected moonlight. "We'll have to split up. You two follow by a different route." He chewed his lip for a moment, then went on, "I'd rather not wait by the jeeps. The sooner we're well away from the city, the better. We'll meet up at those ruins we passed about 60 miles west of here."

Moffitt nodded. "We'll go directly through town," he decided. "If we don't dawdle, it should take a good half hour or forty-five minutes less than the back alleys Ibrahim took us on. If we're not delayed, we may even get back to the jeeps ahead of you."

"No unnecessary risks," Troy warned. "Dawn's a couple minutes before eight. If by then we're at the ruins and you aren't, or the other way around, we head back for our lines separately."

They spared a moment to meet one another's eyes, then Hitch and Moffitt turned, and, slipping silently through the shadows, made their way back to the stairs.

"I'll spot and you signal," Moffitt ordered as they climbed. Seeing the corners of Hitchcock's mouth tighten in a mutinous frown, he added lightly, "I never could skip stones. On the other hand, I imagine you're rather good at it."

Hitch looked startled, then gave a slight smile. "Okay, Sarge."

Sarge? Moffitt let the darkness hide his smile. He hated the nickname, but he wasn't about to risk undermining Hitchcock's first tentative show of acceptance. Perhaps being without Troy and Pettigrew would be a good thing, at least as far as developing a working relationship with his driver. But right now, he had to focus on getting to the upper floor without running into the night watchman. No footsteps had been heard in quite a few minutes, which could mean anything from him falling asleep somewhere to waiting around a corner to ambush them.

They hadn't been briefed on the alarms for the upper floors, but they almost certainly operated like the ones downstairs. Still, Hitch took his time examining the window.

When it came to ordnance or wiring, Moffitt had already learned that the team deferred to Hitchcock, just as when it was mechanical they turned to Tully. Hitch reached out his hand, much in the manner of a surgeon reaching for a medical instrument, and Moffitt slapped a pair of wire cutters into it. With an abstracted grunt of thanks, the private carefully separated out a couple of the wires. A couple of quick snips later, he was easing the window open, and climbing out onto the roof.

"Watch your feet," Hitchcock warned softly. "It's not much of a slope, but these tiles are pretty slick." A scraping sound from the direction of his voice underscored the truth of the warning. But with a few steps and a controlled slide, Moffitt was able to join him at the arch.

The view from here was spectacular. The Mediterranean, to their rear, contributed a whiff of salt water overlaid with fish and oil, and the city laid out below them gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Signaling Hitch to check to their right, Moffitt made his cautious way in the opposite direction. No sign of any patrols, and when he rejoined Hitchcock, the younger man softly reported the same to the west. Moffitt felt around his feet and came up with a few pebbles.

"Go ahead and signal Troy," he whispered, dropping them into Hitch's palm. "Wait for me at the top of the stairs. Once I see him and Tully go through the gate, I'll join you inside."

"I'll have the alarm ready," Hitch answered softly. "After you close the window, look for the two bare wires. Just twist them together and it will be reactivated." He scrabbled his way back up the tile roof and through the window, then stuck his head back through. "But be sure you've closed the window completely, first," he hissed.

For some reason, Moffitt found the mental image of going through all of this and then setting off the alarm accidentally, hilarious. He couldn't hear the sound of the pebbles bouncing down the stairs, but he could see two shadows separate themselves from the darkness and slip down the path, hug the boundary wall, and then ease their way out through the gate.

He carefully climbed back toward the window, his heart almost stopping when he temporarily lost his footing and slid back a few feet. He took a deep breath and forced himself to resume his climb. He'd never had much of a head for heights, joking that it was a good thing that archaeologists did most of their work at ground level or below. Hitchcock must be part mountain goat, or maybe, he revised, all the scrambling up and down the sides of sand dunes had given him that sure-footedness. There's time for care, he told himself, and cautiously, slowly, he made it back to the top and through the window. He pulled it shut, then reset the alarm, smiling again at the memory of Hitch's warning.

Now, though, they had to move quickly. He hadn't spotted any patrols, but that didn't mean they weren't there, concealed by darkness. Speed was essential.

He hurried down the hall to the stairs, barely pausing to listen for the guard, then joined Hitch. Giving his teammate a tap on the shoulder, he waited while Hitch opened the door, and together they stepped out into the night. Then, after taking a few moments to resume their Arab clothing, they made their way out the museum gates and towards the Square.

Moffitt moved confidently, finding his way through the streets he had explored as a boy, suppressing a smile as they passed the Marcus Aurelius Arch. He had caught Troy's look of consternation when he had mentioned it earlier. Did Troy really think that he wouldn't have read through the files on his new teammates? Although he didn't have access to the same level of information Troy did, he did know Hitchcock's full name. Under other circumstances, he would have lingered to take a look at the ancient monument, but not tonight. With hardly a glance, he passed it by and led the way south through the heart of the city.

They passed by Italian troops, mostly in groups of two or three, several times, but in the darkness their Arab clothing attracted no special attention. Just under two hours of hard walking brought them to the outskirts of the city and back to the forest.

Their positions were now reversed: Moffitt was concerned that he might have trouble finding the jeeps in the dark, but Hitchcock seemed to know exactly where they were. They approached carefully, but even so, Ahmed was aiming his rifle at them before they even realized he was there. When he recognized them, the boy gave a dazzling smile which was quickly replaced by lowered brows and a frown.

"Don't worry, Ahmed," Moffitt told him, "Nothing has happened to Ibrahim or our friends. We decided it was safer to split up."

"I was not worried," Ahmed replied indignantly. "No Italian is smart enough to capture my brother." But the tiny quiver to his voice belied the show of bravado.

"They should be here very soon. But for now Private Hitchcock and I need to go."

A calculating look crept over the boy's face, and it wasn't hard to guess that he was wondering whether or not Moffitt and Hitchcock had betrayed the others and were now trying to escape. But finally he gave a jerky little nod.

"I filled your petrol tank," he said, "just in case you had to leave in a hurry."

"Good thinking." Hitch gave him his very best smile. "Thank you for your help, and thank Ibrahim and Sayed for us."

"Thanks are not necessary," Ahmed replied grandly. Both Moffitt and Hitchcock hid smiles at the youngster's imitation of his brother.

Hitchcock gave his jeep a quick once-over, and nodded to Moffitt. He started the engine, and with a last word of thanks to Ahmed, Moffitt climbed in. With a low purr, the jeep climbed the incline and headed back south, out of the forest and back to Allied territory.

 **CHAPTER 8**

"I can't believe we're just sitting here," Tully muttered to Troy. He kept his head down and his voice low, but Troy still shot him a look full of warning.

"Well, at least now we know why there weren't any guards on duty at the museum," he whispered back, making sure he avoided eye contact with any of the hundred or so Italian officers and soldiers crowded into the small space. "I'm worried about them too, Tully," he added, answering the private's silent concern about Moffitt and Hitchcock. "Sayed will try to get word to us if they never showed up at the jeeps, and Ibrahim will let us know when it's safe to leave."

"Leave" this crowded tavern, that is. The party, they had learned, had been going on since the previous afternoon and showed no signs of slowing down any time soon. The noise was ear-splitting, cheerfully raucous joking and laughter competing with a small band and a succession of tenors of varying talent. Apparently, the wife of a _Tenente_ Massamiliano Morelli had just given birth to a son after six consecutive daughters. The lieutenant was celebrating with a hundred or so of his closest friends, a group which apparently now included Ibrahim. They had been hurrying down one of the side streets when the lieutenant spotted them and insisted that Ibrahim and his visiting "cousins" join the party. Ibrahim's protest that he had duty was dismissed with a wave toward a group of high ranking officers, including Ibrahim's commander. Only Sayed had managed to slip away, while the three younger men found themselves hustled into a room crowded with happy revelers. Their happiness was soon explained by the endless series of toasts to the lucky father and the platters of food that appeared as if by magic. Right now, Ibrahim was in the middle of one of the clusters of drunk or nearly drunk men, instructing them in a traditional Libyan line dance.

If Troy had had any confidence that he and Tully could find Sayed or the way back to the jeeps on their own, they would have slipped away hours ago. So far, no one had paid them much attention, and even if they had, would probably have been too drunk to notice anything amiss. But Ibrahim was another story. He was known to too many of the men in the room for his absence to pass unnoticed. Until he could get away, Troy and Tully were stuck.

"Do you think there's another way out of here?" Tully hissed, almost desperately. "A back door?"

"Maybe through the kitchen," Troy guessed.

"Want me to check it out, Sarge?"

"We stick together, Tully." He sat a bit straighter as Ibrahim returned to their table.

"A German officer has discovered the location of his missing Italian patrols," he told them quietly. "He should be here with the _Feldgendarmerie_ any minute. Others will be leaving, and we can join them without attracting too much attention. Follow me."

A few of the revelers were still sober enough to realize that the Germans were on their way to break up the celebration. Ibrahim and the Americans blended in with them as they pushed and elbowed their way through the crowd to the back of the room and on through the hot, steamy kitchen. From there, they emerged into an odiferous back alley, overflowing with refuse.

The rumble of an approaching truck warned them that they were mere seconds ahead of the military police _,_ and with muted farewells and handclasps the Italians separated and dissolved into the night.

Finally, Ibrahim was leading Troy and Tully back to the forest, but the delay had been costly. Dawn was approaching, and it was almost a certainty that Moffitt and Hitchcock had long since left the area. They moved as quickly as they could, but there was a noticeable lifting of

the darkness as they rejoined Ahmed and Sayed. Precious moments ticked by as they and Ibrahim held a whispered conversation, and with a rapid flood of Arabic and a nod in the direction of the Americans, Sayed pressed a small package into Ibrahim's hand.

"Do not worry," Ibrahim finally announced. "Ahmed says that your friends left a bit over two hours ago. They were not seen or followed. All is well." He fingered the envelope in his hand.

"These are Sayed's notes about troop strengths and movements. He wishes to give them to you to take back to Allied intelligence. With all the extra radio traffic, they might be intercepted."

"Thank him for us," Troy said, accepting the packet and stowing it away in his shirt. "And thanks to you and Ahmed as well. We never could have done this without your help."

Ibrahim nodded. "And I thank you, Sergeant. Perhaps we will meet again, and next time our country will be free. I would very much like to show my city to you in the daylight."

With a final round of thanks and goodbyes, Tully and Troy were on their way, pushing the pace as much as they dared. Neither would admit it to the other, but each was convinced that something had gone wrong, and that their teammates needed them. They drove south and then west, the pace of the rapidly rising sun rivaled by that of their growing alarm.

 **CHAPTER 9**

Hitchcock's skill as a driver was on display as he and Moffitt headed west. They had originally crossed the region in the daylight, but now it was dark, with only that tiny sliver of the moon to light their way. Yet Hitch kept the headlights off, navigating their route unerringly, and apparently by memory alone.

It wasn't quite seven in the morning, still more than an hour short of dawn, when they reached the walls of what had once been an ancient outpost. Hitchcock pulled his cap over his eyes and slouched down in his seat to sleep for an hour or so while they waited for Troy and Tully. But Moffitt wanted to explore the ruins, encouraging and cajoling the younger man to join him until he finally gave in.

There really wasn't that much to see, although Moffitt insisted on shining a carefully shielded flashlight on some of the inscriptions and translating them for his captive audience. He led the way, pausing here and there to point out some point of interest, at least to him. He stopped to peer at an unusual pile of stones. He was just reaching for them when Hitch grabbed his arm and pulled. There was a flash of light, and Hitchcock's warning shout was lost in the roar of an explosion and the crash of collapsing walls.

Moffitt returned to consciousness in fits and starts; a moment here, a minute there. Finally he was able to keep his eyes open. He couldn't have been out too long – there was still plenty of dust floating in the air and he could still catch the occasional whiff of explosive residue.

There was a pressure, a heaviness that was making it hard to breathe, and as his wits began to return, he realized that he was half-buried from the chest down under rocks and stone blocks. None of them had struck him square on, if they had he'd be dead, but he was pinned down good and proper.

 _Damn_ , he thought ruefully. _I just had to check out the ruins_. Well, Father and some of the workers would be along soon to dig him out. He just had to wait a few minutes. Then he heard a small, bitten-off sound of pain. He frowned. Had he made that aborted whimper? He heard it again, and then a throat being cleared and a beat or two later, a weak voice.

"Sergeant? Sgt. Moffitt? You . . . you o . . .you okay?

Suddenly, memory overtook him in a sickening wave. That was Private Hitchcock. He wasn't on a dig with his father, he was on a mission.

"Hitch?" His own voice was slightly breathless and he tried futilely to fill his lungs with air. A horrible need to cough struck as he swallowed dust, and when he did, the pressure on his chest was so agonizing that he lost consciousness again.

"Sergeant? You … uh, you still with me?"

"Hitch?" There, that was a bit better. "Hitch, could you help me out here? I – I seem to be stuck."

"I – I don't know. I'll try." There was a weak, scrabbling sound, and then the unmistakable sound of vomiting. Moffitt's heart sank.

"Stop! Don't try to move, Hitch. It sounds like you're hurt."

"I'm sorry, oh God I'm sorry." Hitch's voice was weak and . . . and _broken_ somehow. "I should have seen it, I'm sorry." He sounded near tears. "My fault, I'm so sorry . . . "

Moffitt twisted and squirmed, ignoring the pain each movement caused, and finally was able to lift and turn his head to the left. Hitchcock wasn't far away, but it might as well be a mile for all his ability to reach the younger man. His right side was a mess, from the leg buried under rocks which _had_ made full contact to a shoulder clearly out of place. But the most worrisome things were the trickle of blood running from his ear, the bruise beginning to blossom across his face, and the unfocused look in his eyes.

Moffitt let his head fall back with a groan. It didn't look like Hitchcock was going to be any help. He closed his eyes.

"I don't know what you're sorry about, Private. It was my own damn fault. I just had to check out the ruins."

"No, my fault." There was another of those tiny pain-filled gasps. "Unex – unexploded shell. I should have spotted it sooner. My fault . . ."

Moffitt couldn't keep back another groan as the words sank in. This was no long-ruined site. It had been bombed, and recently. "Private! I'm supposed to know something about ancient ruins. I should have realized that the damage was recent and been more careful. It was not your fault. Do you hear me? Say it! Not . . . Your . . . Fault."

"Not your fault." Hitchcock parroted obediently. There was just a trace of humor underlying the words, and, encouraged, Moffitt seized on it.

"Comedian. You know what I meant." He twisted his head, needing to see. "Hitch, you've got to stay awake." Moffitt tried to move again, and again found himself frustrated by the wreckage pinning him down. But he could see the private well enough to observe the unfocused eyes, the right pupil huge and the left contracted. The spreading bruise now covered more than half his face. The lad had a bad concussion at the very least, and more likely a skull fracture.

Hitchcock's eyelids started to slide closed.

"Sergeant? Uh, I'm not feeling verrr . . ." His words were slow and slurred, and his voice trailed away with his sentence only half finished.

"Hitchcock! Private!" Silence. "Answer me. That's an order, soldier!" Moffitt barked, trying for his best Sam Troy imitation.

"Wha . . ."

"Talk to me," Moffitt demanded again. "Tell me … tell me about Yale."

Hitch was apparently strong enough to utter a snort of absolute disgust and mumble something not quite understandable but clearly profane.

"Why? What's wrong with Yale? I thought it was one of your finest universities."

"I s'pose." There was a long silence then a sigh. "I wanted to go to MIT."

"MIT?"

"Massachusetts Institute of Tech…"

"Of what? Institute of what, Hitch?"

". . .mmmm? Oh. Um. Tech . . . technology."

"Really? What were you planning on studying?"

"Huh?"

"Studying? What were you going to study if the war hadn't happened?" Moffitt repeated.

"Already was. Uh. Engineering. Either mech-mech-" a harsh, painful cough "mechanical or chemical. Hadn't decided yet."

"Really?" Moffitt thought about that for a moment, then decided that Hitchcock's skill at ordnance made a bit more sense. He'd wondered at times how a young man with a privileged upbringing had acquired such a pronounced talent for blowing things up. "I usually associate Yale with the liberal arts."

"Yeah, well…" There was a kind of choking gasp, and Moffitt's concern grew as he heard the private vomit again.

"Hitch? You okay?"

The long silence that followed did nothing to reassure Moffitt.

"Hitch? Talk to me."

"Huh? Wha d'ya wanna know?"

"You were studying engineering? At Yale?"

"Sort of. M-made the o-old man really mad when he found out." In the faint light of sunrise, Moffitt could see the satisfied smile that lifted one side of his mouth, and he seemed to rouse slightly remembering it.

"Why?"

"I was sposed to study ec'n'mics and biz-bizn's. Be a ban-banker like all the other Hitchcocks. Not this boy, nosiree Bob, not mmme. I hate banking."

"I guess I can understand that," Moffitt answered thoughtfully. "My father pressured me to go into archaeology with him. I thought of doing something else, but in the end, I decided to follow his lead, although I did study anthropology instead."

"Wore you down, eh?" The bitterness in his voice was palpable.

"No . . . no, not really. I just finally realized that I was interested in the subject, and decided not to cut off my nose to spite my father. You might have made a similar choice once you got a bit older."

There was a long silence.

"I ha-hated Yyyyale." Moffitt's heart sank as he realized that Hitchcock was now both stuttering and slurring his words. He tried desperately to remember everything he had learned about head injuries, but all he could recall was that these were both bad signs. "Four gen'rations of Hitchcocks grad'jated from there. Hated the p'fessors, too. Well, mmmost of them. They were always trying to trip mmme up, show that I didn't belong there at mmmy age, or they were . . ."

"At your age? How old were you?"

The silence was finally broken by a loud, defeated-sounding sigh, "Sixt'n." He coughed, a tight, whistling, painful sound. "I was 'mitted when I was sixteen."

Well, thought Moffitt. That certainly answered a lot of questions.

"Tell me about the professors, Hitch?" he asked softly. "What were they doing?"

"Tryin' to mmmake points with the o-ole m-man. Join the Hitchcock f'nancial empire. MMmake lotsa m-money."

Once again Moffitt had to bark at Hitchcock before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Did it work?"

"Nah. I knew – knew - . . ." His voice trailed away.

"Knew what, Hitch?"

"They were reporting back to'm. Took just enough business cl-classes to keep the old m-m-man from guessing what I was doing."

"Could he have made you change your course of study?"

"Don' know. M-M-maybe. 'fore I turned eighteen. He was paying the bills."

Moffitt sensed they were getting closer to whatever lay at the core of Hitchcock's odd reluctance to trust him.

"And once you turned eighteen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual. If only he could _move_. The effort required to raise his head enough to get a look at the younger man was making his head swim, but he could see a series of expressions chase their way across the bruised face.

For his part, Hitch didn't want to think about his college years and the constant attention from faculty and administrators. He didn't know whom he hated the most: the ones who made it their personal mission to trip him up and prove he was nothing special, or the ones who constantly held him up to his classmates as the very model of the perfect Ivy League gentleman student. Then of course there were the ones who just wanted to curry favor with the well-connected Hitchcock banking family, and subtly indicated that Mark needn't worry about mundane things like attending class or studying for exams. He reserved a special level of contempt for them. The result of all this unwanted attention was that Hitch quickly developed a penchant for rule-breaking, skirt chasing, beer drinking, fast cars, and a deep-seated loathing of his professors in particular and the professorial class in general. The day he turned eighteen, he went to the lawyers' office to sign the trust papers, and then out the back door to the nearest recruiting station. Before anyone missed him, he was on his way to Fort Benning and basic training.

"I had'n inher'tance from m-m-my grandmother when I tur-turned eighteen. Just had to hang on 'til then. But one of the p'fessors fig-figgered it out." There was a silence. "Didn't think he - he had the brains," Hitch admitted. "Ratted mmme out to the old mmman. Boy was he pissed."

"Pissed?" Moffitt repeated in confusion. "He got drunk?"

Under other circumstances he would have called the strangled sound Hitchcock made a chuckle. "Prob'ly. Sorry. F'got. Pissed mmmeans mmmad. Reelly, reelly mmmad. Tried to use his connek - connections to get mmme out. But I showed'm." There was satisfaction in the quiet voice.

He shuddered, and his eyes closed. "'m really tired, Sergeant Mmoffitt. I'm goin' to sleep for a while."

"You can't! Hitchcock, don't you dare fall asleep. You could fall into a coma and not wake up. Hitch!"

But this time it didn't work. Hitchcock's eyes remained closed, his ragged breathing became slower and slower, and no matter how he tried, Moffitt couldn't rouse him.

He struggled to move the debris trapping him, and finally lay back, panting and exhausted. _At least if I die I'll understand the lad a bit better first_ , he thought. Admitted to university at sixteen, spied on by men who only cared about trying to impress his father. Forced to take on a course of study he hated. No wonder he had problems with Moffitt. All those little mini-lectures about archaeology and anthropology. He must have reminded Hitchcock of the professors at the university.

" _That's my fault, too_ ," he thought bitterly, thinking about his failure to connect with his driver. " _No wonder he shied away from me. Now this. All my fault. No one's going to find us in time. My fault . . ._ " And he followed his teammate into troubled unconsciousness.


	3. Part 3 The Aftermath Ch 10-13 Epilog

_Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. This is my first-ever fic, and I made several mistakes. I genuinely appreciate the corrections several of you offered, either via PM or in a review. I hope you like the conclusion._

 **PART III**

 **CHAPTER 10**

Troy said nothing as Tully pushed the pace to the limits of safety and a bit beyond. The sunrise warned him that it was well past the time when Moffitt and Hitchcock should have left the ruins and headed back to Allied territory, but somehow he didn't believe they had. While his reasons for it might be different, he shared his driver's conviction that their teammates were in trouble. And if they were in trouble, he was pretty sure who was to blame. From the beginning, Hitchcock had been opposed to splitting up, and Moffitt had been sympathetic to his argument. If Hitch had decided to ignore his orders, and persuaded Moffitt to go along, things could have gone sour pretty quickly.

Tully slowed the pace slightly as they crested a low hill near their destination, and a second or two later Troy understood why. There was a jeep, undoubtedly Moffitt and Hitchcock's jeep, cozied up against a low wall up ahead. An empty jeep.

"Dammit, I told them not to wait past dawn," Troy growled, concealing concern under annoyance. "I'd expect it from Hitchcock, but I thought Moffitt knew better."

Tully shot him a look of understanding mixed with frustration. He realized that Troy's brusque manner was just his way of hiding worry, but he also wondered why the sergeant was always so quick to pin the blame on Hitch. Sure, Hitch did his share of complaining, but as far as Tully knew, he had never disobeyed an order. He brought the jeep to a stop, waiting while Troy pulled out his binoculars and gave both the ruins and the surrounding hills a slow, careful examination.

He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, but he could feel it when Troy stiffened beside him. He felt the glasses pressed into his own hand, and took a look. His shoulders tensed. They were still too far distant for a really good view, but he could still make out the shapes of two human figures, one prone and one half-seated.

He handed the binoculars back to Troy and restarted the jeep.

"I didn't spot anyone else, did you Sarge?" he asked, letting the engine idle for a few precious moments. "Do you think it's okay to go straight in?"

"Yeah." Troy's voice had more than its usual gravely undertone. "Straight in. And step on it."

They pulled up beside the jeep, taking only seconds to confirm that it was, in fact, their teammates'. Troy headed towards the fallen men on foot, his sidearm at the ready while Tully followed a pace or two behind carrying his rifle.

Troy stopped for a fraction of a second, then hurried forward. "Tully, get back to the jeep and bring it up here," he tossed over his shoulder. "Grab both medkits and that extra gear Hitch has hidden under his seat." He looked back and gave a grim smile at the look of shock on Tully's face. "Yeah, I knew he'd been stockpiling some extra stuff."

"It's just a suture kit, some probes, things like that." Tully paused for a moment, then added, "After … well, after we lost Benson, y'know?"

Troy set his jaw. They'd nearly melted the tires off the jeeps rushing their wounded comrade back to base, but it hadn't been enough. One of the medics had been tactless enough to tell them that they might have saved their buddy if they'd been able to stop the bleeding in the field. Hitchcock had taken it hard. They all had.

"There aren't any drugs or anything, Sarge," Tully went on earnestly. "And he worked with a couple of nurses to make sure he knew how to use everything." He remembered that clearly, because Troy had accused Hitch of being more focused on dating nurses than his own teammate. Both privates knew that Brad Benson and the Sarge were good friends. For some reason, Hitchcock hadn't defended himself. He just stood there and took it, letting the criticism roll right off. Or that was the impression he gave. Tully hadn't pushed, sensing that Hitch wouldn't welcome any discussion of the Sarge's bitter contempt. He just got quieter and quieter, until he could give Tully a run for his money in the silence department.

Troy sighed. "I figured that out, Tully. That's why I didn't confiscate it. Shake it, buddy."

The sergeant hurried forward, already shaken by what he had glimpsed. Hitchcock was mostly upright but half buried under stone and rubble. Moffitt was lying flat, covered from mid-chest to his knees by more debris. Both were unconscious.

He paused to check the Englishman first, and was relieved to see that many of the stones were propped against one another, keeping the worst of their weight off the trapped man. The injuries were bad enough, but from his prone position, Troy had worried that Moffitt was severely hurt, possibly even dead.

He turned his attention to the private, and his relief evaporated. If Moffitt was better off than Troy had feared, the kid was worse. Much worse. His entire face was one massive bruise, and there was blood in his ear and down the side of his neck. When he gently worked Hitch's shirt open, Troy could plainly see the displacement of his collar bone and the bruising that announced broken ribs. Something seemed badly wrong there, and it took him a minute to realize what. Every few seconds he could see faint signs that a shallow breath was being taken, but it hardly moved his chest at all, and Troy wondered if the kid was even getting any air. His lips and nailbeds had taken on a bluish tinge, confirming Troy's worry that precious little oxygen was getting through.

Then Tully was beside him, handing him one of the medkits. Troy hadn't even heard the jeep pull up.

"I'll start digging out the doc," he told Troy. He paused, wasting precious seconds trying to put his fears into words. Finally he just shrugged, and Troy gave him a curt nod in reply.

Troy studied the debris covering Hitchcock and fought off a wave of despair. He didn't even know where to start.

"Get him free first." That was Moffitt's voice, weak but clear.

"Moffitt? How you doing over there?"

"Sore. And I could really use some water, but I'll be okay." He coughed, and both Tully and Troy winced at the harsh, dry sound. Tully held a canteen to his lips, and Moffitt took a few grateful swallows. "Tully, I can dig myself out the rest of the way. Help Troy. Be careful. I think he has a skull fracture."

"Yeah," Troy answered unhappily. He had pretty much figured the same thing.

"Just hang on, Doc," Tully told him. "I only need a couple more minutes to get you out. I can't concentrate on helping Hitch if I'm worried about you hurting yourself worse over here."

"Doc"? Moffitt considered it, and decided that his despite his dislike for nicknames, he didn't really mind this one. And it was certainly better than "Sarge."

He added his clumsy efforts to the private's, and finally he was free.

"You think you can sit up?" Tully asked.

"There's only one way to find out." He allowed Tully to help him to a sitting position, coughing a few more times and taking another drink. "Help me over there," he ordered.

"I don't think you ought to move," Tully replied uneasily.

"I probably shouldn't, but I have more medical training than either of you. I started patching up workers on my father's digs when I was about fourteen."

"But – "

"Don't argue, Tully," Troy interrupted. "I need any help he can give me. Moffitt, he's barely breathing, and besides the head injury he's got broken ribs and it looks like a broken collarbone, too. Do I sit him up or lay him flat?"

Moffitt struggled to rise, but couldn't quite make it. At least he had a clear view. "If he can't breathe, nothing else will matter. Get him a bit more upright and see if it helps."

Together, Troy and Tully pulled the rest of the chunks of stone away, revealing a blood-soaked trouser leg.

"Don't move him until you check out his leg," Moffitt called. "If it's broken, you'll have to stabilize it first."

Tully's hands were unsteady, too unsteady to use his knife. Instead, he used the scissors from the medkit, to slit up the leg of Hitchcock's fatigues. His leg didn't look too bad; bruised of course, with a couple of deep cuts showed where rock fragments had penetrated, but there was no sign of any breaks. Troy relayed that information to Moffitt who gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"All right. Sit him up. If he starts to choke or struggle, get him flat immediately. Be sure to support his neck and head. Is there anything we can wrap around his head to cushion it?"

Slowly, cautiously, Troy and Tully got the kid into a sitting position. Tully stripped off his shirt and quickly sliced it into strips. Moffitt nodded in approval as Tully stuffed some of the fabric inside one of the sleeves, making a thick sausage-like pillow that he could wrap around Hitch's neck. Troy had folded most of the sterile gauze into another pad which he laid gently over the contusion on the side of Hitchcock's head. The last pieces of Tully's shirt were wrapped around Hitch's head, securing the gauze in place and providing more cushioning. Hitchcock didn't react at all to their attentions, but while his rate of breathing didn't increase, his individual breaths did seem a bit deeper. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"Now what?"

"Now we need to figure out how to get him back to our lines alive."

Troy couldn't speak for several seconds. He hadn't thought that far ahead yet. He closed his eyes and visualized the map. Were they closer to Montgomery's Eighth Army in Egypt? Or their own home base back in Morocco? With a growing feeling of desperation, he realized that their location was right in the middle between the two. A thousand miles from help, with two wounded men, and orders to maintain radio silence.

Jeeps could go as fast as seventy miles per hour, but not in the desert. Thirty to forty miles per hour would be the best they could hope for. That made it a three days' journey, under normal conditions. Unless he and Tully traded off, and they drove all night.

He saw Moffitt watching him and realized that the Englishman had already made the same calculations.

"We really don't have any choice," Moffitt said softly. "And the sooner we get started, the better. Troy . . ." He paused, looked over to where Tully was cleaning and bandaging the dozens of cuts and lacerations scattered up and down his buddy's right side. "I think we should only take one jeep. Trade off driving."

"Yeah," Troy agreed. "I'm way ahead of you. I go first, so Tully can handle the night driving. But what about you and Hitch?"

"Well, luckily we're both better off sitting up. We'll be all right in the back seat."

"That means leaving the 50 behind," Troy reminded him. "We might need that firepower."

"We'll manage," Moffitt answered, trying to sound confident, then added softly, "We have to."

 **CHAPTER 11**

After studying the map, Troy and Tully figured that if they drove at night as well as during the daylight hours, they might be able to make it back to their lines in a bit under two days. If, and Troy hated "if's", they could maintain a speed of about 30mph and didn't run into any trouble.

Trouble. It could mean a lot of things depending on how you looked at it. "Trouble" was trying to transport them all in one jeep, but it was also leaving a jeep behind where it could tip off the Germans that Americans had been in the area. They couldn't risk it, so Troy and Tully each drove one until nightfall. Troy had to struggle to keep up with Tully's reckless pace, gaining new respect for his driver's skill as he dodged rocks and wove expertly around trouble. By dark, they were several hundred miles from Tripoli, and Troy figured that they could safely abandon one of the vehicles. First, though, they cannibalized it for its tires, gasoline, and whatever parts Tully could scavenge, so it wasn't a total loss. After stripping it of everything of value, he and Tully took a few extra minutes to shovel sand over it. They couldn't bury it completely, but they could at least make it look like it had been there for a while. The two 50 caliber guns were a different story. They were carefully and completely dismantled and the parts buried in several different locations, with a few rocks scattered over the spot for good measure.

Their remaining jeep was now packed to the gills with more cans of gasoline, extra tires tied to the hood and rear bumper, and everything from spark plugs to brake fluid tucked in wherever a few spare inches of space could be found. Tully was particularly proud of the hydraulic fluid. He emptied one of the canteens by the simple expedient of drinking its contents, then siphoned the fluid off into it. He flashed one of those hundred-word grins Troy's way, telling him without words that yeah, he knew that meant they now had only three canteens between four men, and did Troy think he was an idiot? Of course he'd been sure to mark it so no one accidentally drank out of it, and heck, Sarge, three canteens were plenty, since they had four full water cans secured to the rear of the jeep, and besides, he didn't mind sharing a canteen anyway, so c'mon, Sarge, he was worried too, could they get a move on now, _please_?

So he took Troy's place in the driver's seat, they gave their passengers in the back seat one final check and got a bit of water down them, and they continued west.

Troy tried to force himself to sleep, knowing that in a few more hours he'd be driving again. He'd need to be in top form, but all the worry and responsibility weighed him down. He worried about the packet of intel Ibrahim had given him. He worried about what Colonel Quint and the Brits would say if he'd gotten Moffitt killed. He worried about Hitch. But sometime around 3am, his thoughts shifted from whether Hitchcock would make it to whether or not he'd given the kid a fair shake. He liked him okay, but he hadn't really made an effort to get to know him the way he had Tully, justifying it by all the hours he and Tully spent together in their jeep. He tended to write the kid off as a bit of a trouble magnet and let it go at that. Was it because he expected more from a college boy, even if he was the youngest on the team? He didn't get into any more trouble than Tully did, so when the two of them found themselves in a tight spot, why did he tend to blame Hitchcock?

He recalled introducing the two privates to Moffitt, his description of Tully's skill running moonshine revealing his admiration for his driver's abilities. But his introduction of Hitchcock had consisted of a backhanded compliment about the kid's deceptively innocent face and a mention of his Ivy League background. And just a few hours ago, he had reflected on the difficulty of desert driving and his heightened respect for Tully. Why hadn't he included Hitchcock in that respect?

Why did he do that? Why hadn't he included both drivers as deserving of praise for their talents? Why had he been so willing to assume that Hitch had flouted his orders? Why had his description of Tully been so approving while his description of Hitchcock had been more mocking than complimentary? He remembered now the way Hitchcock's mouth had been set into a tight, insincere smile as he shook the Englishman's hand. At the time, he'd thought it was because Hitchcock was as unenthusiastic about the newcomer as Troy was. Now, though, he found himself wondering, with more than a bit of shame, if Hitch had really been reacting to his words.

"That doesn't help, Sarge."

Troy shook himself out of his troubled thoughts. "What doesn't help?"

"Feeling guilty."

"Yeah, well I keep thinking . . ."

It was too dark to see Tully's face, but he could guess at its expression. Hitch was a year or so younger than Tully, little brother age, and they were tight.

"Thinking what? That you did your job? Completed the mission? That you got us in and out of one of the most fortified cities in North Africa?"

"Yeah, well that won't count for a hell of a lot if they die, now will it?"

Tully didn't answer.

"I don't know why I never bothered to get to know Hitch better," Troy continued. "That makes me a pretty sorry excuse for his sergeant if you ask me."

Tully didn't answer for several long moments, wondering if he should say anything about his own frustration with Troy's attitude towards the kid, and decided to keep his personal feelings out of it. "Hitch understands," he finally said.

Troy frowned. "What does Hitch understand?"

"He understands that as the CO you can't afford to get too close. Yeah, you're responsible for all of us, but you're also responsible for the mission, and the mission has to come first. If you start thinking of us as friends instead of soldiers, well, that might get in the way when the tough decisions have to be made."

"Like sending someone to die?" Troy asked bitterly.

"Yeah," Tully replied evenly. "Like sending someone to die."

Troy was silent for a long time, exhaustion lowering his defenses and encouraging him to rare honesty. "I don't want to make that kind of decision," he admitted. "It's one of the reasons why I wouldn't let them make me an officer."

"We know." Tully sighed. "Look, Sarge, give yourself a break. Hitch and I trust you absolutely. We would follow you anywhere. I'm not saying you couldn't ease up a bit on him, get to know him a bit better, but he understands. That's not what gets him. . ." His voice trailed off.

"Gets him what?"

Tully's jaw moved from side to side, almost as if he was literally chewing over the question of how much to say. "Remember, Hitch has lost two partners. And now a third is injured."

"But none of it was his fault," Troy protested.

"You ever tell him that?"

Troy had no answer for that.

"You know he blamed himself when we lost Benson, don't you?" Tully continued.

Troy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had blamed the private a bit himself, even though he knew that realistically, it hadn't been Hitchcock's fault. The Krauts got off a lucky shot, that was all. But Benson's death was still too raw, too new. And Hitch's self-doubt and all-too-obvious feelings of guilt implied that he had somehow been at fault and made him an easy target for blame.

"And for Kowalski, before that?"

He winced. He should have guessed, or at least suspected. It had been Stan Kowalski's own damn fault. Troy'd warned him more than once about going off on his own, taking unnecessary risks, trying to play hero. No wonder he'd been captured. So why hadn't he said anything to Hitchcock? Why hadn't he tried to reassure the kid?

"It wouldn't have mattered," Tully continued, and Troy realized me must have spoken the thought aloud. "Hitch doesn't really let people get close. You know, he says he never had a real friend before he joined the army? And he pretty much expects to be ignored or treated like his opinions and feelings don't count. I think maybe he even believes he deserves it. He said once that his own father has never once asked him what he wants or thinks. Maybe he just figures he shouldn't expect his sergeant to, either."

If anything, that made Troy feel worse. "That doesn't make it right," he said in a low tone. They were crowded so tightly into the front seat that Troy could feel Tully's shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. "If he gets out of this in one piece. . ."

"He will," Tully returned confidently.

"If he does, I'll have to see about convincing him otherwise."

"I can get on board with that, Sarge."

In the back of the jeep, Jack Moffitt had surfaced long enough to hear the quiet conversation in the front seat. Before sinking back into the comfortable darkness, he added his own, silent, "So can I."

Later, Sam Troy was unable to remember many details of the rest of that nightmarish dash across North Africa. It was one long blur of sand, blistering hot sun, bone-chillingly cold night, jolting, bouncing discomfort, exhaustion, and worry. Always worry. They didn't even stop to eat on that second day, only to gas up and cool the engine and their patients.

They needed it. It was getting harder and harder to get them to drink. Despite his brave front, Moffitt was clearly suffering, and as the hours passed he became less and less responsive. As for Hitchcock . . . well, he was still alive, but that was about all.

But luck was finally with them. He and Tully were exhausted but relieved when, near sunset on the second day, they drew within the last 50 miles of their lines. Troy had replaced Tully in the driver's seat, and pushed their little vehicle as hard as he dared, blinking into the setting sun ahead of them. Moffitt hadn't roused in the last couple hours, and Hitchcock not only remained unconscious, but an occasional horrible choking, wheezing gasp announced that his struggles to breathe had intensified. Finally, they had shifted positions, putting Moffitt in the front, next to Troy, and Tully moved to the back where he could prop up his buddy and try to keep his airway clear.

"No! No!" Troy shouted, pounding the steering wheel with one clenched fist.

Tully snapped out of a light doze and heard what his sergeant had: the drone of an airplane engine.

"Dammit," Troy growled. "I _knew_ we'd need that 50cal."

"Sarge! Sarge! Relax." Tully reached forward to shake his sergeant's shoulder. "It's ours!"

"You sure?" Troy's voice was hopeful if a bit shaky.

"I'd know the sound of that engine anywhere. Trust me, Sarge, it's American. An A-20, by the sound of it." He kept his voice as calm as possible. He couldn't see Troy's face, but the white knuckled grip on the steering wheel told him that Troy was perilously near the end of his tether. "Want me to drive the last bit?"

Troy shook his head. He couldn't explain it in words, but something inside was compelling him to be the one to deliver their wounded comrades to the medics. He needed it, needed it the way he hadn't needed anything during the long months of war. So he shook his head again and tried to feign a sense of calm.

"Thanks, Tully. I can handle it. Sorry – sorry I flew off the handle a bit there."

"You're entitled, Sarge. If I hadn't been asleep, I'd have been right there with you."

Tully settled back, but only half-closed his eyes, knowing that his sergeant had had less sleep than any of them during this operation. He'd let Tully, Hitch, and Moffitt nap that first afternoon – was it really only day before yesterday? – while he kept watch. Then they'd been up pretty much all night that night, and driven all day yesterday. He'd slept very little, if at all, last night. Anyone would be close to collapse by now. Tully was, by nature, the very definition of the phrase "easy-going." Because he was calmer and more relaxed than his teammates, he normally expended less energy than the high-strung Hitchcock or their hyper-vigilant sergeant. Now Moffitt had joined them, and for all his British reserve, he seemed a bit tightly wrapped, too.

Yet somehow he understood the Sarge's determination to keep driving. And in only a bit under two hours and they'd be home. Troy should be able to handle it. But Tully wasn't going to take it for granted. He'd keep an eye on all _three_ of his patients – er, teammates.

In the end, their arrival was a bit of an anti-climax. Somehow they had miscalculated the distance, which explained the presence of the plane. Only minutes later, they saw the outskirts of the shabby little town ahead. They sped forward, slowing but not stopping at the checkpoint, just enough to shout that they had wounded. When they screeched to a stop in front of the infirmary, orderlies rushed to get Hitchcock and Moffitt inside, while Troy and Tully were hustled off to another pair of medics at the opposite end of the building. Troy struggled, wanting to follow Hitch and Moffitt, but they held him too tightly. He vaguely heard someone calling out blood pressures and pulse readings, then somehow Captain Boggs was there, ordering someone to help him and Tully to their tents. He never even felt the bite of the needle, as he fell down, down, into the bottomless well that was sleep.

 **CHAPTER 12**

Troy sat bolt upright; suddenly, completely, awake and gasping.

"Easy, Sarge," a lazy voice drawled. "It's okay."

"Tully?" He squinted at the figure backlit by the harsh light of midday. He scrubbed his hand over his face. "What time is it?"

"About noon. You slept for close to 16 hours." Tully stepped a bit further in, allowing his features to be more easily seen. "I just woke up a couple hours ago, myself."

"How're –"

"Hitch and Moffitt? All I know is that they're alive. No one will tell me much more than that. I think the docs are waiting to talk to you, first, but the Colonel . . ."

"Yeah," Troy sighed. "I'll bet."

"I told him what I could, Sarge, but he wants to hear it from you."

Troy scratched at the several days' growth of beard. The thought that he could finally shave and shower tunneled traitorously under the wall of worry. He realized that Tully was shoving a cup of coffee into his hand and took a blissful mouthful, wondering, not for the first time, how hot coffee could taste so good in the middle of the desert.

Half an hour later, scrubbed, shaved, and dressed in a fresh set of fatigues, he presented himself at Colonel Quint's door.

The Colonel looked up from some papers he was examining. "At ease, Sergeant." He waved Troy towards a camp chair. "You're looking much better. Sit down."

"Thank you, sir."

He waited until Troy settled himself before continuing.

"Sergeant Moffitt was briefly conscious, long enough to tell me that you successfully completed the mission. Private Pettigrew says the same. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. We made contact with the local resistance, then made our way to the museum and concealed the object in the first of the two storerooms that had been selected. There was a slight problem with the guards and patrols – they weren't where they should have been – so we needed to separate. Hitchcock and Moffitt had to spot for us while we exited the building."

"Bad intel?" Colonel Quint frowned, his eyes straying to the fat envelope from Sayed.

"No sir, bad discipline." He gave a quick grin, one that flashed and disappeared in the blink of an eye. "There was a big party for one of the Italian officers, and everyone skipped out of their duty to attend."

"I doubt the local German commander was happy about that," the colonel observed.

Troy nodded. "First time I ever found myself agreeing with a Nazi, Sir," he replied. "Anyway, our contact was spotted by the host and couldn't refuse to join the party without raising suspicions. We ended up stuck there for several hours. That's how Moffitt and Hitchcock got so far ahead of us. But the fake message, that there were only two rooms left to search, was definitely sent. The Germans should have 'intercepted' it and authorized their own search by now."

Colonel Quint nodded. "I can confirm that, Sergeant. In fact, they located the package the day you left Tripoli, and it should be arriving in Berlin this afternoon." He frowned. "You didn't mention any exchange of hostilities. How were Sergeant Moffitt and Private Hitchcock wounded?"

"In case we were separated, we had a prearranged rendezvous point at a cluster of ruins about sixty miles west of Tripoli. Sergeant Moffitt was conscious long enough to tell us that there was an unexploded shell at the site, apparently from a previous bombing run. It went off, and they were caught in the explosion."

"So there's no way to tell whether the shell of one of ours or one of Jerry's?"

"Not from what Sergeant Moffitt was able to tell us. But once Hitchcock is recovered enough to be debriefed, he may be able to identify the ordnance."

"Very well, Sergeant. Good job. I knew you and your team were the right men for the operation."

"Thank you, Colonel…" He paused. "Will that be all sir? I'd like to get over to the infirmary and check on my men."

"Just a couple more minutes, Sergeant." He frowned down at a folder on his desk. "Before you go, there's another matter we need to cover."

Troy thanked the doctor and left the infirmary. He needed time to think, and that meant time alone, a rare and precious commodity on a military base. He grabbed a cup of coffee at the canteen and found himself a fairly secluded patch of shade. Finally, after nearly half an hour of sorting through the various options, he took a deep breath and went in search of Pettigrew.

He found him not many yards away, in his own patch of shade, cleaning his gun.

"Hey, Sarge," Tully greeted him. "What's the word on Hitch and Sgt. Moffitt?"

"Moffitt will be out for a week, maybe a bit more." Troy eased himself down to sit by his driver. "Hitch's leg wasn't broken, but there's a lot of ligament damage. A coupla broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken collar bone . . ." His voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. "Moffitt was right. It's a skull fracture, fortunately a relatively minor one." If any skull fracture could be considered minor. "But he'll be out a minimum of three weeks, maybe as much as four or five."

"Nuts," Tully muttered. He looked up and briefly met his sergeant's eyes before dropping them back down to the weapon in his hands. "He will be back though, right Sarge?" he said. His voice was carefully casual, but that quick glance had revealed a pair of brown eyes dark with concern.

Troy shifted uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on a row of tents a couple dozen yards away. He forced himself to look at the young soldier who had been his driver since the unit had been formed. "Tully, I'm going to be straight with you. What they told me is that with a skull fracture you never really know. He could be fine, he could have brain damage, or he could have anything in between. We just have to wait until he wakes up to know."

"Yeah," Tully grunted.

"Tully, there's more. The x-rays showed a previous fracture, six, maybe seven years ago, in just about the same spot."

Tully nodded. "He got beaned during a Little League game."

Troy's voice slowed. "You know how he only needs his glasses when he's tired? The docs told me that they suspect his vision problems are connected to that old injury. The fact that this is a second fracture, even a mild one, in about the same place, makes his recovery more . . . complicated. They want us to be prepared for his eyesight to be much worse. Maybe even…" He couldn't finish the thought. Even though the docs had called it a remote possibility, they still considered it serious enough to mention.

"Damn." The word was whispered. That pretty much summed it up for Troy, too.

"So we're getting a replacement. He may be temporary, he may be permanent."

"I'll show him the ropes, Sarge," Pettigrew offered, sensing what Troy was about to ask.

"Tully, there's a bit more to it than that. There's something I'd like you to do. I know I could make it an order, but I'm going to put it to you as a favor."

"Sure, Sarge, anything."

"Don't speak too soon. When Moffitt's back, I'd like you to drive for him until Hitch gets cleared by the medics."

That caught Pettigrew by surprise. "Sure, I guess," he said slowly. "But why?"

"I'd just feel he's safer if someone with experience, who knows how we operate, is paired up with him," Troy explained. "Until we get Hitchcock back, that's you."

Tully nodded and shifted the matchstick from the left to the right side of his mouth. He already felt more confident, hearing the conviction in Troy's voice when he talked about Hitch's return. "I guess that makes sense. I can see how it could be dangerous to have both new guys together."

"You don't mind?" Troy asked.

"No, Sarge. Like I said, it makes sense. Besides, I kinda like the doc. He's interesting."

 _Three weeks later . . ._

Sam Troy sat alone in a corner of the crowded mess hall, watching Moffitt and Tully at the opposite end of the room. He could have joined them, but he had too much on his mind. A good sergeant has to have a feel for the men under his command, and everything Troy had observed told him that Moffitt and Tully worked well together. Very well. They'd successfully completed half a dozen missions without a – well, without a hitch. Tully liked the occasional anthropological or archaeological tidbit that Moffitt threw out, and had even accepted a copy of one of Moffitt, Senior's books. He'd actually started reading it. For his part, Jack Moffitt enjoyed hearing Tully's tales of his life and folks in the Kentucky hills, almost as if they were an exotic remote tribe, just waiting for an anthropologist to study them. After only a couple weeks together, they were as good a team as Tully and Troy had been.

Which created a problem, now, didn't it? Because tomorrow, Hitchcock would be released to light duty, and the following week he'd be back with the team. By all rights, he should be paired up with Moffitt again, while Troy and Tully went back to their old partnership.

But Troy wasn't blind, and he knew a good thing when he saw it. Tully and Moffitt were a far better team than Hitchcock and Moffitt would ever be. And he was fairly sure that neither would mind if he kept them together.

That meant he'd have to team up with Hitchcock. Over the past couple weeks, he'd made a real effort to mend fences, at least once the private was able to have visitors and carry on a fairly rational conversation. Still, he knew there was a ways to go before the two of them had a good working relationship.

"Deep thoughts, old chap?"

Troy looked up in surprise. Moffitt and Tully were standing in front of him. "You know," he grinned, as the two pulled up chairs, "I didn't think the English actually called people 'old chap.' Outside of the movies, I mean."

"Ah, well, when in Rome..." Moffitt murmured obscurely. "Makes it easier to work together, eh what?"

"Now I know you're putting me on." Troy caught the grin that flashed across Tully's face then disappeared.

"So, what's got you so serious that you're over here hiding?"

"Nothing much. Just –" he grinned at Tully, "-just thinking about 'sergeant stuff.'" It was an old joke between the two of them.

"Troy …" Moffitt said seriously. He and Tully exchanged a glance. "Tully and I have something we wanted to run by you."

"Yeah?"

"We … if it's not a problem for you … uh …"

Troy's eyebrows introduced themselves to his hairline. "And that would be…" he prompted, when Moffitt fell silent.

"We'd like to pair up," Tully said.

"Pair up?" Troy answered, deliberately playing dumb.

"I'd like to ride with Tully." Moffitt seemed to have regained some of his confidence. "I think we work well together. No reflection on Hitchcock, but Tully and I like being a team."

"Well..." Troy drew the word out. "You don't want to ride with me anymore, Tully?" He tried to assume a hurt expression, but instead just looked slightly maniacal.

The private almost sprained a vocal cord, reassuring Troy that everything was fine, that he just enjoyed what the doc had been teaching him about the area and its history.

"You know sometimes those long patrols can get pretty dull." He swallowed hard. "So the doc's been teaching me a bit about …" Troy tuned him out and let him ramble for a few moments longer, then decided to stop torturing the pair.

"Calm down, Tully. It's not a bad idea. In fact, it solves a problem or two." Like the letter from Marcus Hitchcock the Fourth that the colonel had shared with him three weeks earlier. The Army wasn't going to discharge Hitchcock, as his father had demanded, but the Colonel didn't see anything wrong with telling the irate father that his son's sergeant would be taking a personal interest in insuring his son's safety. Colonel Quint had suggested that Troy send Marcus Hitchcock a personal note saying that when the kid returned, he would be teamed with Troy. Swap Tully for Hitchcock. A fair trade.

Maybe.

It solved a lot of problems. All except one. No one had asked Hitchcock how he felt about the change. And if Tully was right, not acknowledging Hitch's feelings on the matter would destroy the fragile understanding that he was forging with the young private.

There was no way around it. He'd have to talk, really talk, with Hitchcock. And the sooner the better.

 **CHAPTER 13**

Mark Hitchcock squinted at the top report on the untidy stack of papers. As good an officer as he was, Colonel Quint hated paperwork and tended to shove everything into a desk drawer or pile it on any handy flat surface. It was Hitch's job to sort it all into some kind of order and file everything in the shiny new file cabinet in the corner of the colonel's office. But it was hard on the eyes. There were times when he could barely read the cover sheet that contained the security classification and summary of the attached report, so it was slow going.

He'd been able to fool the doctors well enough that they hadn't evac'ed him to Casablanca, as originally planned, or even one of the forward bases in Tunisia, now that Operation Torch had begun and been a rousing success. Medical facilities would be better at either of those locations, but finally the doctors had agreed that the close proximity of his teammates would help his recovery. Hitch's efforts to deceive his doctors hadn't been quite as successful as he imagined. They knew he was struggling, and even though his physical condition continued to improve, he wouldn't be much use to his team if he couldn't break out of this cycle of depression. No one wanted to see him reassigned, other than his father that is, but unless things changed soon, they'd have to do it. If keeping him where he had the support and encouragement of his teammates could help, they were willing to bend a rule or two.

Hitch didn't know all of that, although he had overheard a few whispered conversations about sending him to Casablanca and breaking up the team permanently. Tully and the sergeants had visited frequently, though, assuring him that they wanted him back. That helped some, and encouraged him to fight harder to recover. The prolonged period of unconsciousness had left his muscles weak and uncooperative, and he had to struggle to do the simplest things. Tully had been there one afternoon at lunch time, and tried unsuccessfully to conceal his alarm at the sight of Hitch struggling to hold his fork and maneuver it to his mouth. That had been one of the worst days, and the memory of the expression on Tully's face had been a powerful motivator as he worked to regain his strength.

Now, weeks later, he was finally out of the infirmary with a promise that he could return to duty in another week. If, that is, he could handle light duty successfully.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. These new lenses were considerably stronger than his old ones, and their weight sat uncomfortably on his nose. The docs had warned him that he'd have headaches and blurred vision for a while yet. Once things settled down, he was told, the headaches would fade and he'd be able to go back to needing the glasses only when his eyes were tired or strained. So far, that hadn't happened, but he didn't want to be put back on bed rest, so he hadn't told them how bad the headaches were or how blurry his vision actually was. Light duty was bad enough. And it wasn't as if they offered him a lot of choices. It was either this, or work in the mess hall. When it came to choosing between a headache and a few thousand potatoes to peel, the decision was easy.

He slid his glasses back into place and frowned, moving the paper closer then further away, trying to find the sweet spot where it would remain in focus.

"Does the doctor know you have to do that?" The voice was amused, but laced with an undercurrent of concern.

"Hey, Tully," Hitch said happily. "How's it going?"

"Well, we're due to move out to Tunisia next week, assuming you're well enough. Sarge is trying to hang on here until the whole team is back together."

Hitch greeted this announcement with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. "You're sure he really wants me back?" he asked softly. "I mean, I'm such a screw-up . . ."

"Knock it off, Hitch. You're not a screw-up and of course he wants you back. In fact, I have it on good authority that he's . . ."

He let his voice trail off, deliberately allowing anticipation to build.

"He's what?" Hitch demanded. His voice was animated, with one of the few displays of real interest he'd shown in weeks.

Tully concealed a smile. "I hear he's thinking of switching us up, having you ride with him and putting me with Moffitt."

To his alarm, instead of seeming pleased, Hitch's face fell and his shoulders slumped.

"What?" Tully demanded.

"Don't you get it? He doesn't trust me," Hitch explained seriously. "He wants me in his jeep so he can keep his eye on me."

Tully was momentarily speechless. "Oh for – Are you completely _nuts_?" he demanded when he could speak.

"No, only partly nuts," said a new voice. "Tully, could you let me speak to Hitchcock privately for a few minutes?"

"Sure, Sarge." Tully fled, reflecting that he had never seen Troy or Hitchcock looking so uncomfortable.

"So." Troy looked around, locating a chair and sitting across the desk from his teammate. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Hitchcock muttered, avoiding his eyes.

"Hitchcock. . ." Troy sigh, cleared his throat. "Hitch, I have a few things I need to say, so just hear me out, okay?" He waited until the private nodded. "First, I do trust you. I trust you as much as I've ever trusted anyone, and a lot more than most. I know I haven't always acted like it. According to Tully, I need to do a better job of showing it. Yes, I would like you to drive for me, and no, it doesn't have anything to do with not trusting you."

Hitch looked up, surprised, then let his head drop again.

"Next. Benson's death was not your fault. Not in any way. Put the blame where it belongs, on the Germans. And if you can't do that, send a bit of it my way."

"But Sarge—"

"No. I knew that we didn't have enough intel on the target. That mission was a bad idea from the beginning, and I should have said something to Captain Boggs before we even left camp. At the very least I should have taken a few more precautions. Do you blame me?"

"Of course not."

"Then don't blame yourself, either. I don't."

He waited, but Hitch didn't say anything. He sighed.

"Next. Kowalski."

"I tried, Sarge, really I did." Behind his glasses, Hitchcock's eyes were deeply shadowed with pain, both physical and emotional. "I knew he'd try to sneak out and free those prisoners on his own, but I didn't want to rat him out to you behind his back. I tried to talk him out of it, instead, and I thought I had." He gave a deep sigh. "I guess I just didn't do a very good job of it."

"Hitch, don't. Yes, maybe you should have come to me, but I knew what he was thinking, too. I told him to stay put and wait for backup. I even made it a direct order. What did they tell you about orders in Basic? Other than to follow them, I mean."

"Well, that maybe we won't always understand them. . ." Troy nodded, encouraging him to continue. ". . .but that they're there to keep us . . ." His voice trailed off.

"To keep you . . ." Troy prompted.

"To keep us safe."

"That's right. I ordered Kowalski to hold his position, not because I didn't want to get those guys out of there, but because I knew we couldn't pull it off without reinforcements to back us up. Trying with just the four of us would have gotten us all killed or captured. When Kowalski decided he knew better, he not only got himself caught, he tipped off the Germans and put us all at risk. Which means he also made it impossible to break our guys out. Kowalski was an idiot, and I said so in my report."

"But what about Moffitt?" Hitch argued. "I'm supposed to know about ordnance. I should have spotted that shell."

"Hitch, where was the shell?"

"Ummm. I don't know." He groaned. "Man, Sarge, how stupid could I be? I didn't even notice where it was."

"You couldn't have. Moffitt says it was hidden under some debris, and when he moved it, he jostled the shell enough to set it off. There's no way you could have seen it in time. It's amazing that you got enough of a glimpse to pull Moffitt away. You know, you probably saved his life. At the expense of your own."

Hitch remained silent, unwilling to let himself off the hook.

"Hitch, I'll be honest with you. I think – no, I _know_ that you're a good soldier. You're a valuable member of the team, and we'd be a lot less effective without you. But not like this. You're no use to me if you're going to let your doubts get the better of you. Your father's been pressuring Command to reassign you to a non-combat position. If you can't get these feelings under control, they'll give him what he wants and put you on a desk in London. And I won't try to stop them."

Hitch's head came up. "But Sarge!"

"I mean it. Either get past this, or accept a new assignment. It's your choice."

He didn't wait for an answer; he just left, hoping he'd said the right things.

Hitchcock was quiet for long minutes after his sergeant left. Had he really done that? Let his doubts get the better of him?

His hands automatically sorted papers as his mind went around and around. He finally realized that for the past couple months, Tully had been trying to tell him the same thing the Sarge had, but he just hadn't heard him. His headache receded into the distance as he found something more productive to think about than his feelings of guilt and ineptitude. Maybe … maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to give himself a break. At least a little bit of one.

Two hours later, he looked down with surprise to see that all the papers had been neatly sorted and assigned to their correct file folders.

And his headache was gone. Well, mostly gone. Gone enough that he had an appetite for the first time in over a month. He looked at his watch, and didn't have to squint to read the numerals. Time for chow. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find the guys in the mess tent.

And he left, closing and securing the door to the colonel's office behind him, looking and feeling ten pounds lighter than he had when he'd entered it that morning. Somehow, he knew things would work out.

 **EPILOG**

 _A letter from Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson to Marcus A. Hitchcock IV_ :

Dear Marcus:

I'm exercising my prerogative as a friend and a fraternity brother, to tell you to stop sending me all these letters demanding that your son be discharged or reassigned. I realize that you probably have your secretary writing them, so they don't represent any particular effort on your part, but it takes my staff valuable time to read and deal with them. Frankly, they have more important things to do.

I told you I'd have someone keep an eye on him, and I have. Colonel Quint tells us that Mark ("Mark," not "Marc". Do you really not know that that's how he prefers to spell his name?) appears to be completely recovered from his recent injuries and has rejoined his team. He's back on patrol with them, and his sergeant reports that he has settled back into his duties with his usual skill and dedication. His team is operating with its accustomed success and, not to sound overly effusive, panache.

We need him where he is, Marcus, and we need a lot more like him. These boys are fighting for something far more important than territory or glory. They are fighting for the very principles that have been our country's touchstone since the days of the Revolution. So stop it. Immediately. I've instructed my staff that the next letter from you is to be returned, unseen by me, unless it contains assurances that you will stop meddling in your son's life, and that you have sent him a personal letter with the same promise.

You've got a good boy there, Marcus. He deserves better.

I hope to see you at the next reunion, but as things currently stand, it seems unlikely.

Henry L. Stimson,

War Department

Washington, DC

PS: I can't force him to accept an officer's commission, so stop that, too.

Hank


End file.
